Page 54 of The Difference Between

“We can watch it at Uncle Gav’s,” Addie offers.

“See,” Gavin says with a cheeky grin. “Everyone wants a date with Miss Reese.”

I don’t know if I agree, but I definitely don’t argue. The three of them slip into a movie-driven conversation, but I’m stuck in my head.

Dr. Cantor told me point-blank that I’m at a higher risk to have a child with the condition because I’m older, but it never occurred to me that it was a real possibility. Now, here with Addie, I see it very much is. And Amanda was younger.

Would I know what to do?

Would I find the right resources?

Would they be bullied? I’d probably end up in jail if that happened.

Addie looks so capable and happy, hanging onto Gavin like a monkey on a tree—they’ve obviously figured it out—but there are so many unknowns that come with a diagnosis like this, and it makes my head and heart hurt. The therapy support needed—Nancy mentioned speech—in a town the size of Fontain is probably hard to come by.

We end up outside—me with the notebook Nancy refers to as her books and the manila envelope holding the copy of the offer—by the cars. I tell everyone goodbye—I need to gather my thoughts.

Gavin laughs. “You’re driving us, remember?”

Right.

Addie climbs into the back seat, and Gavin once again folds himself into the passenger side of the Volkswagen—the car might have shrunk—and I roll down the windows.

The drive happens around me—trees and houses blow by in a blur of greens, blues, and whites—and I can’t pry my thoughts from Amanda. And Greg. What it must have been like when they found out and how they handled the news. If Amanda grieved or barely bat an eye. The guilt I feel—the humility over my own self-absorption—over not knowing about this—any of it—makes it impossible to think straight. I’m worried about my potential inadequacy as a mother at the mere prospect of a child with special needs and Amanda faced it head on.

And I didn’t know.

My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, and Addie’s reflection smiles from the back seat. I catch a snippet of their conversation, Gavin saying, “Miss Reese lives in Chicago, Ads.”

“Where’s that?” she asks.

“A big city,” he explains. “In Illinois. That’s another state.”

“It’s cold there.” Am I shouting? I flick my gaze from the road to Gavin and his brows pinch; I’m shouting.

I park in Mom’s driveway, and we clamber out. “Well, bye,” I say awkwardly.

Wordlessly, Addie hugs me—this family and their hugs—but unlike when Gavin wrapped his arms around me and I pushed him away or when Nancy embraced me and I tolerated it to be nice, I am softened—to her. Amanda’s child. My desire to protect her is as instinctive as it is instant.

“It’s okay about the glass,” Addie says when she releases me. “We have a lot.”

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I’ll be more careful.”

Gavin tosses her his keys. She misses them then her fingers fumble to pick them up from the driveway.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he tells her.

She trots to the house, and we watch her until she’s inside.

He looks at me. “You’re weird again.”

There’s no arguing with him this time. “I didn’t know she had Down syndrome.” The confession tumbles out of me. “I’m so sorry. If I would have known, I could’ve⁠—”

“Wait—” Gavin’s eyes go wide. “Addie has Down syndrome?”

My stomach drops. Oh, God.

“What? I—I—” I can’t breathe. “I thought⁠—”