“He has a name,” I answered.
My father finally looked at Liam.
Six years of driving him through every back gate in the city, and Father looked at him like a coat he was deciding to discard.
“You will not bring that man into this family.”
“No,” my father said. “He has a place.”
Miriam touched my father’s wrist. “Arthur, darling, don’t shout. She’s clearly confused.”
“I’m not confused,” I said.
“You’re young,” Miriam replied gently. “It’s not too late to correct a mistake. Think of the family name.”
“I am thinking of family,” I said. “Mine.”
“He has a place.”
