Chapter 13 I'm in the laundry room, rewashing the few outfits I have of Elijah's when I hear the front door open and close. Clara must be back from the store with diapers. I'm still crying. Big surprise. I wipe at my eyes before turning on the dryer and heading back into the living room. When I round the corner, I pause. Jonah is standing in my living room. He's holding Elijah. Cradling him against his chest, kissing him over and over on top of his head. "I'm sorry," I hear him whispering. "Daddy is so, so sorry." I don't want to interrupt the moment. It's heartwarming, which is odd, since I was so full of anger just minutes before. But I can see in Jonah's expression that he realizes he can't just walk away from Elijah. No matter who fathered him, Jonah has raised him. Jonah is the one Elijah knows and loves. I'm happy that Jonah didn't make my worst fears come true. I walk to my bedroom and give them a moment while I repack Elijah's diaper bag. When I return to the living room, Jonah hasn't moved. He's still cradling him as if he can't apologize enough to Elijah. As if Elijah even understands what happened. Jonah glances up, and we make eye contact. As much relief as I feel right now from knowing his love for Elijah overpowers any DNA they do or don't share, I'm still a little pissed that it took him almost four days to come to his senses. "If you abandon him again, I'm filing for custody." Without wasting a second, Jonah crosses the room and wraps an arm around me, tucking my head under his chin. "I'm sorry, Morgan. I don't know what I was thinking." His voice is desperate, as if I might not forgive him. "I'm so sorry." The thing is . . . I don't even blame him. If Chris and Jenny weren't already dead, I'd kill them for doing this to Jonah. It's all I've been able to think about for the past few days. Jenny had to know there was a chance Chris could be Elijah's father. And if Jenny knew, Chris knew. I've asked myself why they would allow Jonah to think for one second that he fathered a child that wasn't his. The only reason I can come up with isn't good enough. I believe they kept it a secret because they were afraid of the fallout the truth would bring. Clara would have never forgiven them. I think Jenny and Chris would have done anything in their power to keep the truth from Clara. Even if that meant pulling Jonah into the lie. For Clara's sake, I'm relieved they did such a good job of hiding it. But on Jonah's behalf-and Elijah's-I'm livid. Which is why I don't say anything else to Jonah to make him feel guilty. He needed time to adjust to such traumatic news. He doesn't need to feel guilty. He's back and he's remorseful, and that's all that matters right now. Jonah is still clinging to me, still apologizing, as if I need more of an apology than Elijah. I don't. I understand completely. I'm just relieved to know that Elijah won't have to grow up without a father. That was my biggest concern. I pull away from Jonah and hand him Elijah's diaper bag. "There's a load of his onesies in the dryer. You can come get them later this week." "Thank you," he says. He kisses Elijah on the forehead again and stares at him for a moment before going to leave. I follow them across the living room. When Jonah reaches the front door, he turns around and says it again, somehow with even more conviction. "Thank you." I shake my head. "It's okay, Jonah. Really." When the door closes, I fall onto the couch with relief. I don't think I've ever been this exhausted. From life. From death. From everything. I wake up an hour later in the same position when Clara finally returns home. Without diapers. I rub sleep from my eyes, wondering where she's been if she wasn't out getting diapers like I asked her to. As if having an infant all week wasn't exhausting enough, having a teenager who decided to start her rebellious period on the day of her father's funeral takes the cake. I follow her into the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator, and I'm behind her, trying to see if she smells like weed again. She doesn't, but nowadays they all eat those gummies. It's easier to hide. Clara looks at me over her shoulder with a raised brow. "Did you just sniff me?" "Where have you been? You were supposed to be out getting diapers." "Is Elijah still here?" "No. Jonah came and got him." She sidesteps around me. "Then we don't need diapers." She pulls the diaper money out of her pocket and sets it on the counter. She heads for the kitchen door, but I've been way too lenient on her. She's sixteen. I have a right to know where she's been. I block her from leaving the kitchen. "Were you with that guy?" "What guy?" "The guy who got you high at your father's funeral." "I thought we were past this. And no." She tries to step around me again, but I stay in front of her, still blocking the door. "You can't see him anymore." "Uh. I'm not. And even if I were, he's not a bad guy. Can I please go to my room now?" "After you tell me where you've been." She throws her hands up in defeat. "I was cleaning Jonah's house! Why do you automatically assume the worst?" I feel like she's lying to me. Why would she be cleaning Jonah's house? "Check the app if you don't believe me. Call Jonah." She squeezes past me and pushes open the kitchen door. I guess I could have checked the app. I just feel like, even with the app, I don't know what she's up to. Her app said she was at the movie theater the day of Chris's funeral, but it certainly didn't tell me she was doing drugs while she was there. I feel like the app is useless at this point. I should probably just cancel it because it costs money. But Chris is the one who subscribed us to the app, and Chris's phone probably got smashed in the wreck. It wasn't in the box of belongings they gave us from Jenny's car. I wouldn't know the password to his phone even if I did find it. That should have been my first clue that he was hiding so many things from me. But who needs clues when you don't even realize you're supposed to be playing detective? I never even suspected anything was amiss. Here I go again. I kind of wish Elijah were still here. He kept my mind preoccupied. I didn't have to think about what Jenny and Chris did when every minute was consumed by Elijah. Jonah is lucky in that regard. Elijah will probably keep him so busy and exhausted that his brain will have time for little else. I'll pour myself some wine. Maybe take a bubble bath. That might help. Clara stormed out of here a good thirty seconds ago, but the kitchen door is still swinging back and forth. I hold it with my hand, then stare at the back of my hand, my palm pressed flat against the door. I fixate on my wedding ring. Chris gave me this one for our tenth wedding anniversary. It replaced the gold band he bought me when we were teenagers. Jenny helped Chris pick this one out. Was their affair happening way back then? For the first time since the day I put on this ring, I feel the urge to get it off me. I slip it off my finger and throw it at the door. I don't know where it lands, and I don't care. I push the kitchen door open and go to the garage in search of something that can take care of at least one problem in my life. I really want a machete, or an ax, but all I find is a hammer. I take it back to the kitchen with me to take care of this damn door once and for all. I swing the hammer at the door. It makes a nice dent. I swing at it again, wondering why I didn't just try to take the door off the hinges. Maybe I just really needed something to take out my aggression on. I hit the door in the same spot, over and over, until the wood begins to chip. Eventually, a hole begins to form, and I can see from the kitchen into the living room. It feels good. That kind of worries me. I keep hacking away, though. Every time I swing at the door, the door swings away from me. I swing again when it comes back. My hammer and I fall into a rhythm with the door until there's at least a twelve-inch hole. I put all my strength behind the next swing, but the hammer gets stuck in the wood and slips out of my hands. When the door swings back toward me, I stop it with my foot. I can see Clara through the hole in the door. She's standing in the living room, staring at me. She looks bewildered. My hands are on my hips now. I'm breathing heavily from the physical exertion this hole took to make. I wipe sweat from my forehead. "You have officially lost your mind," Clara says. "I'd be better off as a homeless runaway." I push at the door, holding it open with my hand. If she really thinks it's so bad, being here with me . . . "Run away, then, Clara," I say flatly. She shakes her head, as if I'm the disappointing one, then walks back to her bedroom. "That's not the way to the front door!" I yell. She slams her bedroom door, and it only takes three seconds for me to regret yelling at her. If she's anything like I was at that age-which she is-she's probably packing a bag and is about to climb out her window. I wasn't serious. I'm just frustrated. I need to stop taking it out on her, but her attitude with me is making her an easy target. I go to her bedroom and open her door. She's not packing a bag. She's just lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Crying. My heart clenches with guilt. I feel terrible for snapping at her. I sit down on her bed and run an apologetic hand over her head. "I'm sorry. I don't really want you to run away." Clara rolls over dramatically and faces the other direction. She pulls a pillow to her chest. "Get some sleep, Mom. Please."