“How long have you known?” I asked.
“A long time,” he said. “I figured out how to read when I was four, but I pretended I couldn’t. I watch when Mom and Dad talk at night. They think I’m asleep, but I’m not.”
I stared at him, stunned by what it must have taken to live like that—to understand so much and say nothing to protect the one person who believed in him without conditions.
“Why tell me now?” I asked softly.
“Because they’re gone,” he said. “And because I heard Mom on the phone yesterday. She said she was tired of waiting for nature to take its course and that it was time to speed things up while they were away. She said she made the tea stronger this time. Much stronger.”
I glanced at the spreading pool of tea on the floor, then back at him.
If he hadn’t spoken when he did—
I didn’t finish the thought.
“We have to be very careful,” I said, mind racing. “If your mother finds out—”
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