I whispered.
Marcus looked at his mother.
“Mom?”
Patricia looked confused.
“I swear I don’t know.”
Marcus turned toward me.
“I was shown a medical report.”
“What medical report?”
“It said you were already pregnant before we married.”
My mouth fell open.
“That’s impossible.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew?”
“I found out two years later.”
I stared at him.
“Then why didn’t you come back?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Because by then you were gone.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You had my address.”
“I went there.”
That stopped me.
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
My heart skipped.
“I came to Austin.”
I stared at him.
“You never contacted me.”
“I saw you.”
The room became silent.
“You saw me?”
He nodded.
“You were walking out of a restaurant with four children.”
My entire body stiffened.
“You knew?”
“I didn’t know they were mine.”
“Then why didn’t you ask?”
His voice broke.
“Because I saw you smiling.”
I didn’t understand.
“What?”
“You looked happy.”
He wiped his eyes.
“And I thought I’d lost the right to disturb your life.”
For the first time, anger wasn’t the only thing I felt.
There was something else.
Something more painful.
Regret.
But I wasn’t ready to forgive him.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I opened the second envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Marcus standing outside a hospital.
Beside him was a man I recognized.
My stomach dropped.
It was Marcus’s older brother, Daniel.
Daniel had died six years earlier.
He had always been kind to me.
He was the only member of Marcus’s family who had called me after the divorce.
But beneath the photograph was another note.
“Daniel discovered the truth.”
I looked at Patricia.
“Did Daniel know?”
She covered her mouth.
“My son…”
Marcus grabbed the photograph.
“Where did this come from?”
I handed him the final letter.
He opened it.
His eyes moved across the page.
Then he stopped.
“What?”
I asked.
He didn’t respond.
“Marcus.”
He handed it to me.
There was one sentence.
“Ask Daniel’s wife what she was told to keep secret.”
Nobody moved.
Then Patricia whispered,
“Daniel’s wife.”
Marcus looked at her.
“Claire.”
Patricia nodded.
“She lives in Denver.”
I folded the letter.
“We’re going.”
Marcus looked at me.
“You don’t have to do this.”
I looked toward my children.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because whatever happened eight years ago affected all of us.”
The children were watching.
Noah stepped closer.
“Mama?”
I knelt.
“What is it?”
“Is Grandpa coming with us?”
I looked at Marcus.
He looked back at me.
For eight years, I had imagined my children asking about their father.
I had prepared answers.
I had prepared explanations.
I had prepared myself to protect them from disappointment.
But I had never prepared myself for this.
I smiled at Noah.
“Maybe.”
Marcus looked away.
His shoulders shook.
Later that afternoon, while the children played in the snow with Patricia, I found Marcus standing alone on the balcony.
Snowflakes landed on his coat.
“You really have four,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“They are.”
“I missed everything.”
I didn’t answer.
“I missed their first steps.”
I remained silent.
“Their first words.”
Silence.
“Their first day of school.”
His voice broke.
“I missed eight birthdays.”
I looked at him.
“You did.”
He wiped his face.
“Is there any way I can make that right?”
“No.”
His head dropped.
Then I softened slightly.
“Not by trying to replace eight years.”
He looked at me.
“But you can stop wasting the years you still have.”
He stared at me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means if you want to know your children, you have to earn their trust.”
He nodded.
“How?”
“Slowly.”
“And you?”
I looked toward the window where the children were laughing.
“You don’t need my forgiveness to be their father.”
His eyes filled again.
“But I want yours.”
