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?”

“Yes. He was in graduate school in Boston.”

Josh let the silence rest between them. “Anything else, Mom?”

“Do you have a form I can fill out? It would be more pleasant than this.”

He almost laughed. “I’d like whatever information you have.”

“Are you sick? Do you need a family history?” Her forehead crinkled with worry.

“No. Not at all. Not sick.”

She sighed. “He left me when I was four months pregnant, Joshua. He knew what he was doing, too. I told him the minute I found out, and he made the choice to—what do you kids call it?—to ghost me. He is not your father. He was an unpaid sperm donor who left us both.”

“I know that, Mom.” He sighed. “The thing is, I have too much time on my hands. I miss Lauren.” His voice broke. “I don’t have that many . . . people. Outside of you and Ben and Sumi, I have two relatives that I know of—your cousin, and her daughter. I’d just like to . . . see where I came from, genetically speaking.”

“Oh, so you do want to meet him! I see!” She tossed down her fork, and it hit the plate with a clatter. “You think after thirty-one years, he’s going to take you to a ball game and teach you to catch?”

“No. I would just like to meet him. One time.” He hadn’t been sure of this until the words left his mouth.

She said nothing, though she may have hissed. Then she anger-ate her dessert, stabbing her fork through the innocent cake like she was murdering it, chewing fiercely. She chugged her coffee milk.