My stepdad, Tim, raised me since I was 8

hands clasped tightly in front of him, the familiar tremble in his fingers when he’s nervous. His eyes meet mine just for a second—just long enough for me to see the smile he tries to hide.

I freeze.

My father’s arm tightens around mine. “Keep walking,” he mutters under his breath, his tone stiff, rehearsed. Everyone is watching.

But something in my chest continue reading …