"What do you want to do?" Lorraine asked softly.
She didn't understand his thoughts. He had just discovered the truth about his birth mother, and the first thing he wanted to do was send her away? How did that make sense?
Leroy didn't answer. Instead, he rolled onto his back, his head still resting against her chest. He reached for a lock of her hair, her long, silken strands that brushed against her hips, and began playing with it absently. After a while, he seemed to find unusual fascination in trying to braid it, his fingers clumsy but persistent.
Lorraine let him be. She placed her hand gently on his forehead, her thumb stroking into his hair, grounding him.
And that's when it struck her… his silence wasn't coldness. It was guilt.
Just moments ago, he had called Aralyn a mistress to her face, had spoken to her with anger and disdain. And then, suddenly, he had learned that she was his mother. Of course, he was struggling. Of course, he didn't want to face it.
