Chương 3
“Why did you meet Samantha?”
She hesitated.
“I didn’t.”
I waited.
She looked uncomfortable.
“I saw her once.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“Where?”
“Chicago.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She sighed.
“At a coffee shop.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“She recognized me.”
“How?”
Chloe looked down.
“Because your mother had shown her a picture of me.”
My mother closed her eyes.
I felt a wave of confusion.
“You showed Samantha a picture of Chloe?”
“She already knew you were dating someone.”
“How?”
My mother said nothing.
Patricia answered from the doorway.
“She found out from your old friends.”
I had forgotten my aunt was still there.
She looked devastated.
“I should have told you years ago.”
Nobody blamed her.
That somehow made it worse.
“What happened at the coffee shop?” I asked Chloe.
She sat back down.
“Samantha wasn’t angry.”
I almost smiled.
That sounded exactly like her.
Even when she was hurt, Samantha had rarely been cruel.
“She asked me if I loved you.”
The question felt strange coming from Chloe’s mouth.
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“And?”
“She said she hoped I was the kind of person who would never make someone disappear from your life because it was inconvenient.”
My chest tightened.
Chloe looked at me.
“I didn’t understand what she meant at the time.”
“But you knew she had a child.”
“Yes.”
“And you still married me.”
“I didn’t know the child was yours.”
“That should have mattered.”
“It did.”
Her voice became sharper.
“I thought about telling you.”
“Thought?”
“Yes.”
“Three years?”
She looked away.
“Every time I tried, I convinced myself I didn’t have the whole story.”
I stared at her.
“That sounds like something you told yourself so you could sleep.”
She flinched.
Because it was true.
My mother moved toward me.
“Ethan, you need to understand something.”
I almost laughed.
That sentence had become a weapon in this house.
“Do I?”
“She was afraid.”
“Who?”
“Samantha.”
The name sounded different now.
Not like my ex-wife.
Like someone I had abandoned.
“She was afraid you would hate her.”
I shook my head.
“Why would she think that?”
Nobody answered.
Then memories started coming back.
Not the dramatic ones.
The small ones.
Samantha sitting on the edge of our bed after another argument with my mother.
Her asking, “Do you ever wonder if I’m the only one fighting for us?”
Me telling her, “You’re overthinking things.”
Her quiet expression afterward.
The way she stopped asking me to choose sides.
Maybe because she had already realized I never would.
“I need to find her.”
My mother looked alarmed.
“Ethan.”
“I need to find Samantha.”
Chloe reached for my hand.
I moved away.
Not because I hated her.
Because I did not know where to put my anger anymore.
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice was barely audible.
I looked at her.
“I believe that you’re sorry.”
Her eyes filled.
“But I don’t know what that changes.”
I grabbed my coat from the chair.
“Where are you going?”
I looked at my mother.
“To ask my ex-wife why she stopped fighting for me.”
The airport was different when I returned that afternoon.
The same crowds moved through the same terminals.
People dragged suitcases.
Families hugged near baggage claim.
A child cried because his balloon escaped toward the ceiling.
Normal life continued around me while mine had split open.
I found Samantha near the same coffee shop.
She was emptying trash containers into a larger cart.
When she saw me, she stopped.
“You talked to them.”
It was not a question.
I nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Samantha looked down.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she tied the trash bag closed.
“Because I tried.”
“No.”
My voice came out harder than I intended.
“You tried to tell my mother.”
She looked at me.
“And what was I supposed to do?”
I froze.
She continued.
“I called you.”
“When?”
“After the divorce.”
“I never got a call.”
Her face changed slightly.
“Of course you didn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked away.
“Nothing.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“Samantha, I spent five years thinking you walked away.”
Her eyes became wet, but she refused to let the tears fall.
“I spent five years thinking you chose not to come back.”
The words hit harder than any accusation.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“How can you know?”
“Because I know you, Ethan.”
She gave a small, sad smile.
“Or at least I used to.”
I looked at her.
“Is the child mine?”
The question hung between us.
Samantha closed her eyes.
For the first time, I saw fear on her face.
Not anger.
Not resentment.
Fear.
“Yes.”
My breathing stopped.
“He’s mine?”
She nodded.
“He?”
A tear finally moved down her cheek.
“Our son.”
The noise of the airport disappeared.
I heard only those two words.
Our son.
“I named him Noah.”
I stared at her.
“Noah.”
She nodded.
“He’s five.”
Five.
The number felt impossible.
Five birthdays.
Five Christmas mornings.
Five years of first steps and bedtime stories and sickness and laughter.
Five years I had not known existed.
“Where is he?”
Samantha looked toward the passing travelers.
Then back at me.
“He’s at school.”
I swallowed.
“Does he know about me?”
Her silence answered before her words did.
“No.”
The pain of that answer was different.
It was not anger.
It was grief for a child who had grown up without ever missing someone he never knew.
“Why?”
Samantha looked exhausted.
“Because I didn’t want him to grow up waiting for a father who might not come.”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because the worst part was knowing why she believed that was possible.
“I need to meet him.”
She looked at me carefully.
“That is not a decision you get to make in one afternoon.”
The sentence hurt because it was fair.
“I’m his father.”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
May you like
“And I am his mother.”
The two of us stood there surrounded by strangers.
