"How old is she exactly?"
"Four months. Almost five."
Four months. Almost five months of her life, and he hadn't known. Five months of firsts he had missed because of pride and silence and the damaged logic of a man who thought distance was the same as strength.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. His fingers were trembling slightly. He pressed them against his jaw to stop it. The control he had built his image on, the composure that everyone commented on—it was fraying. Not breaking. But fraying.
"Does she—" He stopped, cleared his throat, started again. "Has she asked about me? Does she know—"
"She's five months old, Dayo." Luna's voice was gentle, but there was something else in it too. Defensiveness. Or maybe just the exhaustion of carrying this alone. "She doesn't ask about anything yet. She looks at faces. She reaches for me. She cries when she's hungry and sleeps when she's full. That's her world right now."
