“Yes,” I said. “She did.”
“She showed us the box.”
He sighed. “I’ll be there.”
He showed up that evening, like always, carrying a grocery bag.
“I brought dessert,” he said, trying to sound normal.
We went through the motions of dinner, but the air was heavy.
Halfway through, I said, “She showed us the box.”
Julian put his fork down and rubbed his face.
He shrugged, eyes shiny.
“I told her not to come,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked. My voice cracked.
He looked miserable.
“Because it felt like their mess,” he said. “Their money. Their guilt. Not ours. I didn’t want it in this house.”
“But you’ve been carrying it alone,” I said.
He shrugged, eyes shiny.
“And the money? Is it a lot?”
“I handled the calls, the paperwork,” he said. “I read their letters. They talked about fear and pressure. They never talked about the night they left me outside.”
Harold leaned forward.
“And the money? Is it a lot?”
Julian let out a short laugh.
“Yeah,” he said. “Enough that my brain short-circuited when I saw the number.”
That hurt, but I understood.
I swallowed.
“Do you want it?” I asked. “You can be honest.”
He thought for a long moment.
“Sometimes I think about paying off my loans,” he said. “Helping you two. Doing something good with it. But every time I picture signing their name, it feels like I’m saying they’re my real parents and you’re… something else.”
That hurt, but I understood.
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