Chương 3
She looked like someone who had carried something heavy for a very long time.
I called.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a familiar voice answered.
"Ethan?"
I closed my eyes.
She still said my name the same way.
Carefully.
Like she was making sure it belonged to her before speaking it.
"Where are you?"
There was a pause.
"Why?"
"I need to talk to you."
Another pause.
"About what?"
I almost laughed because I deserved that question.
"About the children."
Silence.
Not angry silence.
A wounded silence.
"Where did you hear about them?"
"My aunt told me."
A long breath came through the phone.
"I figured someone would eventually."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
The question came out sharper than I intended.
Samantha did not answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was quiet.
"Are you asking because you want to know?"
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means there is a difference between wanting information and wanting responsibility."
The words hurt because they were fair.
"I want both."
"Do you?"
I looked down at my hand resting on the steering wheel.
The same hand that had signed divorce papers.
The same hand that had packed boxes and walked away.
"I don't know," I admitted.
That surprised her.
I could hear it.
After a moment, she said, "Come tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
Before I could respond, she added something.
"Don't come expecting everything to be fixed because you finally know."
Then she hung up.
I stayed in the parking lot for another twenty minutes.
When I returned to my mother's house, Chloe was sitting on the couch with her laptop closed.
She looked exhausted.
Not angry.
That would have been easier.
She looked like someone trying to decide whether she still understood the person sitting in front of her.
"You found her."
It was not a question.
I nodded.
"What did she say?"
"She wants me to come tomorrow."
Chloe looked away.
"And the kids?"
I sat across from her.
"They're mine."
Her eyes closed briefly.
Even though she already suspected it, hearing me say it made the room different.
"I don't know what happens now," I said.
Chloe laughed quietly.
It was not a happy sound.
"Neither do I."
I wanted to reach for her hand.
I didn't.
That hesitation felt like a betrayal by itself.
"I love you," I said.
She looked at me.
"I believe you."
The answer should have comforted me.
It didn't.
"Then why do you look like that?"
She swallowed.
"Because loving someone does not mean they don't hurt you."
I had no defense.
Because she was right.
The next morning, I drove to Samantha's apartment alone.
I did not tell Chloe where I was going.
Not because I wanted to hide it.
Because I did not know how to say it without making everything worse.
The address took me to an older brick building on the south side.
Nothing about it looked dramatic.
That somehow made it harder.
This was not the home of someone from a tragic story.
It was just a normal building where someone had been living a life I knew nothing about.
A bicycle was chained near the entrance.
A child’s drawing was taped inside the lobby window.
Someone had left a package near the mailboxes.
Ordinary things.
Things that made me feel like I had missed years instead of moments.
Samantha opened the door before I knocked twice.
She was not wearing the airport uniform.
She wore jeans and a gray sweater.
Her hair was loose.
For a second, I remembered her sitting on our apartment floor years ago, surrounded by unopened boxes, laughing because we had accidentally bought two identical lamps.
A memory I had not invited came rushing back.
Then it disappeared.
"Come in."
The apartment was small but clean.
A children's backpack rested beside the couch.
Crayons were scattered across a small table.
There were photographs on the wall.
I did not look closely.
Not yet.
Samantha walked into the kitchen.
"Coffee?"
I almost said no.
Then I remembered how many mornings she had made coffee for both of us even when we were barely speaking.
"Yes."
She handed me a mug.
We sat across from each other.
The silence was unbearable.
"So," I said.
Samantha looked at me.
"That's a very Ethan way to start a difficult conversation."
Despite everything, a small part of me wanted to smile.
"You still remember that?"
"I remember a lot of things."
Her answer changed the air.
I looked down.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She leaned back.
"I tried."
"When?"
"Three times."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"The first time was before you left."
My face tightened.
"Samantha, we were fighting every day."
"I know."
"Then why didn't you say something?"
Her eyes moved toward the window.
"Because I was afraid."
"Of me?"
She hesitated.
"Of us."
That answer hurt more.
"I thought you hated me."
"I did."
The honesty surprised me.
"I hated you for leaving."
She looked back at me.
"But I also hated myself because part of me understood why you wanted to go."
I said nothing.
"The second time I tried was after I found out where you were living."
"You knew my address?"
"You sent it to me before we separated."
I remembered.
A text message.
Something simple.
My new apartment number.
A piece of information I had forgotten existed.
"I called," she continued.
"And?"
"You didn't answer."
I looked away.
"Was I supposed to keep calling?"
The question was not cruel.
It was tired.
I rubbed my face.
"What about the third time?"
Samantha looked toward the hallway.
"The third time was when I came to your mother's house."
I already knew.
But hearing her say it made my chest tighten.
"I was scared."
She folded her hands together.
"I had just found out I was pregnant."
Her voice became quieter.
"I didn't know if you would be happy."
May you like
"You thought I wouldn't want them?"
"I thought you didn't want me."
