He knew his father’s name . . . it was listed on his birth certificate. Christopher M. Zane. But first, he’d have to talk to his mom.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY, he sat in his childhood home. His mom had made pot roast for him, Sumi and Ben. Sometimes she insisted on being the one to cook, since Sumi took care of that most of the time.

They ate dutifully, Sumi sneaking some seasoning out of her purse and dashing it onto her plate, then Ben’s as Stephanie’s back was turned. Josh smiled, and she passed him some. Ah. Bulgogi spice mix, the magic of paprika, garlic, ginger and brown sugar. A pity that thirty years of living next door to the Kims hadn’t made his own mother a better cook. She viewed meals as a necessary evil, good Lutheran that she was.

“It’s delicious, Mom,” he said, winking at Sumi.

“We have happy news,” Sumi said. “Hana’s expecting again. Five months along! We thought she was too old, but guess what? She’s still got some good eggs.”

Ben chuckled. “Their oldest is a senior in high school. So much for retirement, but a baby is always a blessing.”

There was a pause.

“How wonderful!” said Stephanie, too emphatically. She carefully avoided looking at Josh.

So here it was. The awkward moment as the Kims realized Stephanie wouldn’t be a grandmother, or Josh a father, and that Lauren was still dead.

Sumi looked at her hands. Ben cleared his throat.

“Congratulations,” Josh said, getting up to kiss Sumi’s cheek, clapping Ben on the shoulder the way Darius would have. Like a normal person.

“Thank you, Joshie,” Sumi said, though her voice was subdued. “We’re thrilled.”

“Do you think they’re hoping for a boy or a girl, or do they care either way?” he asked, and so it was that he had to make pregnancy small talk with his old friends, feeling the tug of grief like a riptide.

He and Lauren had wanted four. Back when they were unaware of the cruelty of illness and the hubris of that kind of thing . . . as if you could go up to some divine deli counter and just put in your order. We’ll have four kids, please. Two girls, then two boys. All healthy, please. Oh, and could you throw in a Golden retriever?

“Oh, no, it’s six fifty-two!” Sumi exclaimed. “We have to get home for Jeopardy!”

“You can watch it here,” his mom said.

“And get creamed by you and Josh? No, thanks,” Ben said. “A man has to maintain some pride.”

Josh smiled. He and his mother did tend to get every answer right, except in the pop culture categories. With Lauren, they’d been unbeatable as a team. He’d also told Ben he needed to talk to his mom alone.

“I also ate too much and have to get out of these pants,” Sumi added.

“I love you both,” Josh said. “See you soon.”

“What’s on your mind?” his mom asked the second he closed the door. “Was it their new grandchild?”

“No. Did that bother you, though?”

“No,” she lied. “It’s wonderful. Why would it bother me?”

They stared at each other a minute, the subject of children lurking between them. You can talk about your feelings, you know, Lauren would say. Then again, this was his mother. Feelings hadn’t been discussed a lot.

What the hell? “Of course, I’m sad Lauren and I didn’t have kids,” he said.

“Well. That would’ve been irresponsible, given her condition.” She looked at the floor to avoid his eyes. Logic had always been her go-to response for anything. Josh said nothing.

“Do you want dessert?” she asked. “I made an apple cake. Coffee milk?”

“Sure.” She was a better baker than cook.

His mother cut the cake, put a dollop of Cool Whip on the side and cut herself a piece, too, then poured them both coffee milk, Rhode Island’s weirdly delicious state drink. She sat down heavily across from him. She was still a striking woman, his mom, with her blond hair and piercing blue eyes. They had the same nose, the same slight cleft in their chins. Otherwise, he must have been his father’s boy, so to speak. It wasn’t uncommon that, when Josh was a kid, people had assumed Ben was his biological father, given Josh’s straight black hair and dark eyes.

“So what’s up, Joshua?” She always could read him better than anyone else.

Except Lauren.

“Well, Mom . . . I was hoping you could tell me about my father.”

She flinched and took a hostile bite of cake. “When did you start lobbing bombs in conversation?”

All his life, when he’d asked about his father, Stephanie had been like this. Cold enough to let him know his questions weren’t welcome. Irritated (or hurt) by his interest. By the age of ten or so, he’d stopped asking. All he knew was that they’d dated briefly, his mother had gotten pregnant, and his biological father left, never to return, call or write.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I know you don’t like talking about it, but . . .”

“Well, it came out of nowhere, and I’m not prepared to talk about it.”

He nodded. “Is there some way I should’ve eased into that?” This was his mother. She should know he lacked social dexterity.

She shrugged and fluttered her hands. “I can’t think of how.” She sighed. “Fine. Eat your cake. I need a minute.” She took a sip of her coffee milk, glaring at him.

He obeyed. One bite. Two. Some Cool Whip, a staple from his childhood. Three bites.

“So,” she finally said. “He was tall, dark, handsome, irresponsible. What else do you want to know?”

“You met in college, right?”