My son turned toward his grandmother.
Then toward me.
I took his hand and stood.
Camilla looked as though the room had changed shape without warning.
I faced the woman I was supposed to marry.
“Tell me where I should sit.”
My name is Roman DeLuca.
I was forty-three years old.
People had called me many things in rooms where they assumed my son would never hear.
A businessman.
A dangerous man.
A man whose family should not be crossed.
None of those descriptions had taught me what to do when an eight-year-old asked whether fatherhood had expired because a woman moved into our home.
Camilla looked toward the guests.
My aunt.
Two cousins.
A longtime family friend.
My mother’s brother.
People who had known me for years.
People who knew exactly how I became Vivian’s son.
She had expected them to support a distinction they had never made.
“Roman, obviously that is different.”
“How?”
“You’re an adult.”
“I wasn’t when she adopted me.”
She glanced at my mother.
“I didn’t know.”
Vivian’s expression remained steady.
“You knew I was his mother.”
Camilla opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Theo squeezed my hand.
I looked down.
He wasn’t watching her.
He was watching the chair beyond the service door.
I had allowed the conversation to continue while he stood there waiting.
That stopped being acceptable the moment I noticed.
I released his hand only long enough to cross the room.
I carried his chair back myself.
Placed it beside mine.
Then I moved his name card from the sideboard.
“Here, buddy.”
Theo looked at me.
“I can sit?”
“Yes.”
“Even tonight?”
“Especially tonight.”
I pulled out the chair.
He sat.
