Chương 9
“When?”
She had no answer.
I stood.
“I need Samantha’s original letter.”
My mother went pale again.
“What?”
“You kept it.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you keep everything.”
She looked toward the hallway.
That tiny movement was enough.
“Where?”
“In my desk.”
I followed her upstairs.
Her office still smelled faintly of lavender furniture polish.
She unlocked the bottom drawer of an old wooden filing cabinet.
Inside were tax records, insurance documents, my father’s death certificate, and a thick manila envelope.
My name was written across the front in Samantha’s handwriting.
The envelope had been opened along one side.
My mother handed it to me.
I sat on the edge of the desk.
Inside was a letter dated five years earlier.
There was also a hospital information sheet and a black-and-white ultrasound image with two small profiles marked BABY A and BABY B.
My fingers began shaking.
I read the first line.
Ethan, I don’t know what your mother has told you, so I’m writing this as if you know nothing.
I stopped.
That sentence alone told me Samantha had already suspected something was wrong.
I forced myself to continue.
She had written that the babies were mine.
She had written that she was not asking to reconcile.
She had written that she was scared.
She had written that she wanted me there if I chose to come.
At the bottom was a phone number for the maternity ward.
Then one final handwritten line.
Whatever happened between us, they deserve the chance to know you before anyone decides for them.
I folded the letter carefully.
My mother stood near the doorway, crying silently.
“Why did you keep this?”
She wiped her face.
“Because I couldn’t throw it away.”
“That almost makes it worse.”
“I know.”
I slid the ultrasound into the envelope.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“No, Mom.”
I looked at her.
“You know you lied.”
“That isn’t the same as knowing what it cost.”
She sank into the desk chair.
“I thought you would eventually have children with someone else.”
The sentence stunned me.
“You thought they were replaceable.”
“No.”
“That’s what you just said.”
“I thought you could still have a family.”
“I already had one.”
Her face collapsed.
I stood.
“I’m not staying here tonight.”
“Where will you go?”
“A hotel.”
“Ethan, please.”
“I need space.”
“What about Chloe?”
I looked toward the stairs.
“That is no longer your problem.”
Downstairs, Chloe was standing beside my suitcase.
She had apparently understood before I said anything.
“I’ll leave,” she said.
I shook my head.
“This is my mother’s house.”
“I can stay with a friend.”
“I don’t care where you stay.”
She closed her eyes.
I hated the cruelty immediately but did not take it back.
I carried my suitcase to the door.
“Are we over?”
I stopped.
Patricia looked away.
My mother remained halfway down the stairs.
I turned toward Chloe.
“I don’t know what we were.”
Her lips parted.
I left before she could answer.
At the hotel, I sat on the edge of the bed with Samantha’s letter in my lap.
I read it three more times.
Then I took out my phone and searched for a photograph of myself at four years old.
My mother had posted one years ago on a family account.
I found it after several minutes.
There I was in striped shorts, squinting into sunlight beside my father’s old Buick.
I zoomed in on the face.
The eyes were Lucas’s.
The mouth looked like Noah’s.
I set the phone down because my hands would not stop shaking.
A message arrived ten minutes later from a number I did not recognize.
This is Samantha.
I stared at it.
A second message followed.
The boys asked about you.
I typed three different replies and deleted all of them.
Finally, I wrote, What did you tell them?
The answer came a minute later.
That you’re someone important who has been away a long time.
I swallowed hard.
Then another message appeared.
Lucas asked if you’re their dad.
My chest tightened.
What did you say?
This time the pause was longer.
I told him we would talk about it when I got home.
I stared at the screen.
Then Samantha sent one more message.
If you still want Sunday, come at nine thirty instead.
I’ll meet you before they arrive.
I typed, I’ll be there.
After a moment, I added, Thank you.
She did not answer.
I placed the phone beside me and looked at the two tiny shapes on the ultrasound image.
For five years, everyone around me had treated the truth like something dangerous enough to manage.
Now the truth had two names, two blue backpacks, and a playground meeting on Sunday morning.
And for the first time, I was afraid not of what had been taken from me, but of what I might do wrong when someone finally gave part of it back.
Sunday came slowly.
I spent Saturday doing things that did not matter because everything that mattered was waiting for me at a playground the next morning.
I bought toothpaste.
I returned two shirts Chloe had ordered for the rehearsal dinner.
I stood in a grocery aisle for ten minutes trying to remember whether I needed coffee filters for a hotel room that did not have a coffee maker.
At noon, Patricia called.
I let it ring.
At two, my mother called.
I let that ring too.
At four, Chloe sent a message.
I have more to tell you.
I stared at it for a long time before replying.
Not today.
She answered almost immediately.
Then when?
I did not respond.
That evening, I opened Samantha’s letter again.
The paper had softened at the folds from being handled.
I wondered how many times my mother had taken it from the drawer over the years.
I wondered whether guilt had weight.
May you like
At six twenty the next morning, I was awake before the alarm.
I shaved twice because I missed a strip beneath my jaw the first time.
