The questions swirled in her mind, relentless and consuming. He's my child too, she thought fiercely. He must know. He must answer me. In the past two days, had he met his father? Talked to him? When, where, how?
The urge to ask burned hot, a fire that refused to be extinguished. She needed answers—needed them as much as air—as though it might consume her if she didn't voice them. But as her gaze fell on Little Tiger, her heart wavered. He sat quietly, his small fingers toying with the hem of his shirt, his innocent face utterly detached from the storm inside her. She could see that his quiet world, untouched by her turmoil, was a fragile bubble she could burst as the relentless questions refused to quiet.
