Max looked at the wardrobe.
Then said:
“Did Uncle Julian know he wasn’t my dad?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t he say?”
His father looked down briefly.
“He should have.”
Max pulled his blanket toward him.
“Did everybody think?”
“Some people did.”
The boy’s eyes filled.
“What if they think I wanted that?”
Darian moved closer.
“You don’t need to correct every adult tonight.”
“But—”
“I will speak to the people who need to know. We’ll do it without making you explain the whole evening again.”
Max looked at him.
“You?”
“Me.”
The boy nodded.
Then, after a long silence, he asked for a story.
Darian read.
I stayed until the final page.
Nobody mentioned the performance again before sleep.
The following morning, Max wanted to know whether school would be different.
We sat at breakfast.
Darian had canceled a morning meeting.
He did not tell Max that as though the child owed him gratitude.
He simply came downstairs.
“Different how?”
“People.”
His father waited.
“They saw Uncle Julian.”
Darian nodded.
“I’m going to speak to the school.”
“Will they ask me?”
“Not to explain this to everyone.”
Max looked at his cereal.
“Can I just do the project?”
“What project?”
“The boats. We’re testing them.”
“Yes.”
The boy seemed relieved.
His life had not stopped because the adults had made a mess.
He still had a cardboard boat he wanted to float.
That morning, Darian asked me to take him as usual.
He would attend a meeting later.
Max accepted the plan.
At the car, he turned back.
