Mama?”

I looked up to find my son standing in the doorway, his small frame silhouetted against the dim interior of our home. At ten years old, Leo had his father’s eyes—dark and searching, always looking for answers I couldn’t give him.

“Yes, baby?”

He stepped out into the sunlight, squinting slightly. “Why don’t I have a father like the other kids at school?”

The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through years of carefully constructed defenses. I’d known it would come eventually. Children always ask the questions we most dread answering.