“That’s her name,” Olivia said, patting her belly. “After my great-grandmother. The one with the ‘dirty blood.’”
Arthur laughed, a genuine sound. “Zora. It’s a strong name. I like it.”
Summer arrived. The heat was heavy, but the house in Pine Creek was cool.
In August, a car pulled into the driveway. It wasn’t Arthur. It was Gavin.
He looked terrible. Thin, pale, his expensive suit hanging off him. He walked up to the porch where Olivia and I were sitting with the baby. Zora was two months old, sleeping in a basket.
“Olivia,” Gavin said, his voice trembling. “I… I wanted to see her.”
I stood up, blocking his path. “You have no business here.”
“She’s my daughter,” Gavin pleaded. “My father told me. Please. I’ve changed. I’m in therapy. I don’t talk to my mother anymore.”
Olivia stood up. She walked to the railing, looking down at the man she had once married.
“Changed?” she asked coldly. “Did therapy bring back the first baby, Gavin? The one you let your mother kill?”
Gavin flinched as if she had slapped him. “I… I didn’t know how to stop her. She always got what she wanted.”
“You could have told me,” Olivia said. “You could have warned me. But you chose her. You always chose her.”
“I can be a father now,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “Please.”
“A father protects his children,” Olivia said. “You are not a father. You are a ghost. Leave, Gavin. Before my uncle Marcus sees you.”
Gavin looked at the sleeping baby one last time. Then he turned and walked back to his car. He drove away, and we never saw him again.
“Did I do the right thing?” Olivia asked me, her hand trembling as she reached for Zora.
“You did the only thing,” I said. “You protected your pack.”
