Chương 7
"What about his mother?"
Victoria exhaled.
"Julian, before you react, you need to understand something."
"I am listening."
"She didn't tell you everything."
The words landed heavily.
Because they sounded familiar.
Too familiar.
Everyone had a version of the truth.
Everyone had information they decided I did not deserve.
"What didn't she tell me?"
Victoria was quiet.
Then:
"She had another family."
I said nothing.
The silence on the phone became uncomfortable.
"Julian?"
"I don't understand."
"I know."
"Explain."
"I can't."
My anger returned.
"You cannot tell me something that changes my son's life and then say you can't explain."
"I can explain some of it."
"Then do it."
Another pause.
"Not on the phone."
I almost ended the call.
But something stopped me.
Not because I trusted her.
Because I needed to know whether this was another manipulation or something real.
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"No."
She hesitated.
"I need time."
"You had time before my wedding."
The words came out colder than I expected.
She was silent.
"Where?"
"Somewhere public."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know you are not trying to control the conversation."
A small, bitter laugh escaped me.
"Victoria, you spent months controlling the conversation."
She did not respond.
I ended the call.
For several minutes, I stood there staring at nothing.
Then I went back upstairs.
Leo was still asleep.
I sat beside his crib and watched him breathe.
A person can spend years believing they understand their own story.
Then one sentence can make the entire past look different.
His mother.
My late wife.
The woman I still struggled to talk about.
Not because I was still in love with her.
Because grief was complicated.
People imagined grief as sadness.
They imagined tears.
They imagined missing someone every day.
Sometimes it was smaller than that.
Sometimes it was seeing a pair of shoes in a closet and remembering an argument about where they belonged.
Sometimes it was hearing a song in a grocery store and remembering a completely ordinary Tuesday.
Sometimes it was looking at your child and seeing the person you lost in the shape of their eyes.
I had spent years protecting Leo's memory of his mother.
Even when he was too young to remember her.
I had saved pictures.
Videos.
Letters.
Everything.
But I had never questioned whether there was something I did not know.
The next morning, I arrived at the cafe twenty minutes early.
Habit.
I hated being late.
A lifetime of construction deadlines had trained that into me.
A building did not care why you were behind schedule.
A contractor did not care about your excuses.
Problems simply waited for you.
Victoria arrived exactly on time.
That bothered me.
Because part of me expected her to be different.
Messier.
Panicked.
Instead, she walked in wearing a simple coat, no makeup that I could see, and an expression I had never seen before.
Not the confident woman from business events.
Not the perfect future wife from family dinners.
Just Victoria.
She sat across from me.
Neither of us touched the coffee.
"I don't know where to start."
"Try the truth."
She looked down.
"I know you hate me right now."
"I don't hate you."
The answer surprised both of us.
I continued.
"I don't have enough energy for hate."
Her eyes moved up.
For a moment, she looked like she wanted to apologize.
Then she stopped herself.
Good.
An apology would not fix this.
"I met your wife before she died."
The cafe noise disappeared.
Not literally.
People were still talking.
A machine was still making coffee.
Someone near the window laughed.
But my attention narrowed.
"What?"
"Her name was Emily."
I nodded.
"I know my wife's name."
Victoria swallowed.
"I met her six months before Leo was born."
My hands stayed still on the table.
"Why?"
"Because of a charity event."
I waited.
"She was trying to raise money for a foundation."
That sounded like Emily.
She had always cared about things outside herself.
Even when we were struggling financially, she would find ways to help other people.
"What does this have to do with Leo?"
Victoria looked toward the window.
"Emily knew she was sick."
The sentence was quiet.
Too quiet.
I felt something inside me shift.
"She knew."
Victoria nodded.
"She knew the treatment was not working the way doctors hoped."
I stared at her.
"No."
"Julian."
"No."
I shook my head.
"She never told me that."
"I know."
"She would have told me."
Victoria looked back at me.
"Would she?"
The question hurt because it was unfair.
And because some part of me had asked myself the same thing years ago.
Emily had always protected people.
Sometimes too much.
She hid pain.
She minimized problems.
She smiled when she was exhausted.
She was the person who would say she was fine while standing in a hospital room.
"What did she tell you?"
Victoria opened her bag.
She removed an envelope.
She did not push it across the table immediately.
She held it for a moment.
Like she was unsure whether giving it to me would help or destroy something.
"She asked me to do something."
My eyes went to the envelope.
"What?"
"She asked me to watch out for Leo."
I looked at her.
"Why would she ask you?"
Victoria's face changed.
And for the first time since I met her, I saw something I recognized.
Shame.
"Because I knew something about his biological father."
The words were almost impossible to process.
Leo's biological father.
The phrase itself felt wrong.
I had been there from the beginning.
I had held him the night he was born.
I had sat beside Emily's hospital bed.
I had promised her I would protect him.
But I had never questioned the paperwork.
Never questioned what Emily told me.
Never questioned anything.
"Julian."
I looked at Victoria.
"Who is his father?"
She pushed the envelope toward me.
Inside was a photograph.
A document.
May you like
And a name.
A name I had seen before.
