I take her hand. It’s damp and feels wriggly.

“I would have come to the funeral if I could,” she says. “Even though Dad hated me, I would have come home.”

“He didn’t hate you.” We’re still holding hands. It’s the closest we’ve been in decades.

“That’s everything I haven’t told you,” she says. “That’s all of it.” She rubs at her wrist, that tattoo on the inside of it twisting.

Of course that’s not all of it. “What does that stand for, that arrow?” I ask.

She glances down at the tattoo as if she’s forgotten it’s there. “Oh. It’s forward motion. Onward. Arrows never go back. I’ve tried really hard to get my life on track, Alex. I made some good choices. I did. I made some.”

“That’s great,” I say, though I can’t shake the feeling that she’s holding back. For all the heartfelt cards she’s put down on the table, she still has a few more up her sleeve. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here now.”

She bites her lip in that way of hers, kicks one shoe against the other. “Eli.”

“Eli who?”

“Eli Beck. The man I was living with in Pittsburgh.”

“What happened?” I ask, although I already know. Ruth has a pattern with men. It’s a pathway burned in her brain.

“I thought he was a good guy. He was nice at the start. It was a trick. We had jobs in the same community college—his was in the kitchen, mine was serving and cleaning up after the students.”

“What did he do, Ruth?”

“He got into dealing drugs. And I didn’t want any part of it. He hit me. Hard. Right here.” She points a shaky finger at her temple. “I had to get out of there because it wasn’t safe for my baby.”

Why can’t you pick better guys? I want to scream at her. Didn’t you just tell me we’re predisposed to choose men like our father, and yet, you never do? But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I put my arm around her and pull her close. “Oh, Ruth, at least you got out of there. And your baby’s okay. That’s something.”

“Yes.” Her smile is limp. “Good riddance to bad rubbish. And I’m going to be a great mom.”

We sit quietly for a minute. There’s only one question left now. “Ruth—”

“Yes, he is,” she says before I can finish. “Eli is the father.”

“Does he know?” The last thing we need is an abusive drug dealer arriving at our house.

“No. I left before he found out. He doesn’t know where I am.”

“Good. Then you’re safe from him now.” I squeeze her arm. “Onward? Right, Ruth?”