They sat across the table from him. The twins were curled into a faded wicker couch on the back porch. Behind them stood Frank the Social Worker, a tall strong figure. Beverley came out with a pitcher of lemonade.
It was cool out, and the twins struck a different image than they had a few months ago. Instead of their sequins and high fashion, they now sat in blue jeans with Ryan in a plain white T-shirt and a green button-up sweater that Beverley had pulled from a local thrift store. It was the first thrift store item he'd ever owned. Sharpay was in a pink tank top and a body wrap blanket snapped around her like a poncho.
He looked the same as he always did. Only tired. He wrung his hands, he tapped at his glass of lemonade. He cast uncomfortable glances up at Frank the Social Worker, before letting his eyes rest on the faces of his children. "Your hat is crooked," he said lamely.
"Its covering a scar," Ryan replied accusingly.
Mr. Evans stopped, nervous. He studied the twins. They were everything he'd ever hoped for in children. Hard working, intelligent, but, yet, they were not his children. The looks on their faces, the ice in their words, told him that no longer would he have the privilage of attending their plays, seeing them at breakfast or peeking in their rooms at night to watch them sleeping like he used to, what seemed like ages ago.
He opened up his hands in surrender towards them. He opened his mouth, sound escaping at first before words, long before words. "I-I'm sorry."
They wanted to scream. They wanted to cry. They wanted to fling accusations like javelins. Ryan sat up straighter in his seat, defensive and angry. Sharpay lay a gentle hand on his arm and asked, "Do you want to meet our family?"