Chapter 2 - THERE WERE TWO OF THEM
For several seconds, I thought Aunt Patricia had used the wrong word.
Pregnancy.
Not message.
Not letter.
Not phone call.
Pregnancy.
I looked at my mother.
“You knew Samantha was pregnant?”
Mom’s face hardened in that familiar way it always did when she believed emotion was making everyone else irrational.
“She said she was.”
Patricia stared at her.
“She was seven months pregnant when I saw her, Margaret. I think we can safely say she was.”
Seven months.
I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter.
“No.”
Patricia looked at me.
“What?”
“Our divorce had been final three weeks.”
“She wasn’t three weeks pregnant.”
My stomach dropped.
“How far along?”
Patricia glanced at Mom.
Mom looked away.
“Almost seven months.”
The room tilted.
I did the math even though I didn’t need to.
Samantha had been pregnant before I filed for divorce.
Before Vancouver.
Before the screaming match in our old apartment when she told me I cared more about building Mercer North America than being married.
Before I accused her of already checking out.
Before she signed the papers without fighting.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
Mom answered too quickly.
“She had opportunities.”
Patricia slammed her palm on the counter.
“Margaret.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
My mother’s eyes flashed.
Patricia turned to me.
“She tried.”
I could barely breathe.
“She came here?”
“Yes.”
“In the rain?”
“Yes.”
“To find me?”
“Yes.”
“And Mom sent her away.”
Patricia hesitated.
Then nodded.
I turned toward my mother.
“What did you tell her?”
Mom’s face tightened.
“That you had moved on.”
“I had been divorced three weeks.”
“You were leaving the country.”
“For work.”
“You had finally gotten free of a marriage that was destroying you.”
My voice rose.
“It was my child.”
Mom stood.
“You don’t know that.”
Patricia made a sound of disbelief.
I stared at my mother.
“Samantha cheated?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why would you say I don’t know the baby was mine?”
“Because she was angry. Because the divorce was ugly. Because—”
“Did she tell you it was mine?”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
The word landed like a punch.
Behind me, a chair scraped.
Chloe.
I had almost forgotten she was standing there.
Her face was pale.
Too pale.
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
There was that word again.
Nothing.
Yesterday Samantha had looked at Chloe with recognition.
Now Aunt Patricia had mentioned a pregnancy and Chloe looked like she might faint.
I turned fully toward her.
“You knew something.”
“No.”
“Chloe.”
“I knew there had been…a situation.”
The kitchen went silent.
My pulse pounded in my ears.
“What situation?”
Chloe looked at my mother.
That was enough.
I laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
“Both of you.”
“Ethan,” Mom said.
I pointed at her.
“No.”
Then at Chloe.
“What did she tell you?”
Chloe’s eyes filled.
“About two years ago.”
My chest went cold.
We had been dating three years.
Engaged for nine months.
“You’ve known for two years that Samantha was pregnant when we divorced?”
“I didn’t know everything.”
“What did you know?”
“That she came here after you left.”
“And?”
“That she said she was pregnant.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Chloe started crying.
“Your mother said Samantha had lost the baby.”
I turned to Mom.
She closed her eyes.
Patricia whispered:
“Oh my God.”
I stared.
“Did she?”
Mom said nothing.
“Did Samantha lose my child?”
“No.”
The answer barely came out.
I felt my knees weaken.
“Then why did you tell Chloe that?”
“I was protecting your future.”
“From my own child?”
My mother snapped:
“You were finally successful!”
The room stopped.
There it was.
Not love.
Not confusion.
Success.
Five years earlier, I had been thirty-four and drowning.
My company had nearly failed.
My marriage had become a battlefield.
Then Vancouver happened.
One contract became six.
Six became international expansion.
I returned to Chicago worth more money than the younger version of me would have believed possible.
My mother had watched the climb and somehow convinced herself the cost had been necessary.
“Samantha would have kept you here,” she said.
“She was my wife.”
“She resented your ambition.”
“She wanted me home sometimes.”
“She wanted too much.”
Patricia whispered:
“She wanted her husband.”
Mom turned on her.
“You weren’t there for their marriage.”
“Neither were you.”
I barely heard them.
I was staring at Chloe.
“What else do you know?”
She shook her head.
“That’s all.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Yesterday at O’Hare, Samantha looked at Chloe and said:
Make sure you get it right this time.
Not him.
You.
I stepped closer.
“Why did Samantha recognize you?”
Chloe froze.
Mom sat down slowly.
That was when I knew the next lie was worse.
“Chloe.”
She covered her mouth.
“I met her once.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
We had started dating shortly before that.
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
Patricia stopped breathing.
“What hospital?” I asked.
“Lurie Children’s.”
My chest tightened.
“Why were you there?”
“My sister’s daughter had surgery.”
“And Samantha?”
Chloe’s tears came harder.
“She was with two children.”
Two.
The word did not register at first.
Then it did.
“What did you say?”
Chloe shook her head.
“Ethan.”
“What children?”
She looked at Mom.
I grabbed the back of a chair because I suddenly needed something solid.
“What children?”
“Twins.”
Everything inside me went silent.
Not one child.
Two.
“Boy or girl?”
“One of each.”
I stared at her.
“How old?”
“They were babies then. Maybe a year.”
My throat closed.
“Names?”
“I only heard one.”
“What name?”
Chloe whispered:
“Noah.”
Noah.
I had once told Samantha if we ever had a son, I liked Noah.
She hated it at first.
Then, during our honeymoon, she wrote Noah Hale in the sand and said she was “testing it.”
I hadn’t thought about that moment in years.
“What about the girl?”
“I don’t know.”
Patricia was crying now.
I turned back to my mother.
“Two?”
She would not look at me.
“Mom.”
“Yes.”
I stopped breathing.
“You knew Samantha had twins?”
“Yes.”
I walked away from the island because for one terrible second I was afraid of what I might say if I stayed close.
Five years.
First steps.
First words.
Birthdays.
Christmases.
Fevers.
Nightmares.
Every ordinary Tuesday that made someone a parent.
Gone.
Not because Samantha vanished.
Because my mother had decided for me.
I turned back.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I haven’t spoken to Samantha in years.”
“When did you last see the children?”
Mom stared at the table.
“Ethan—”
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“Where?”
“At Samantha’s apartment.”
Patricia whispered:
“You went there?”
Mom’s face crumpled for the first time.
“I wanted to make sure they were taken care of.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You wanted to make sure?”
“I offered money.”
Of course she did.
“What happened?”
“Samantha refused it.”
“What did you say to her?”
Mom stayed silent.
“Tell me.”
Her voice became small.
“I told her if she really loved you, she would let you build your life.”
My chest hurt.
“And the children?”
“I said bringing twins into your life after the divorce would destroy everything you were trying to build.”
I stared at the woman who raised me.
“Did you threaten her?”
“No.”
Patricia said:
“Margaret.”
Mom’s shoulders collapsed.
“I told her Ethan had lawyers.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
“She thought I would take them?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
My own mother had turned my money into a threat before I even had much of it.
I grabbed my coat.
Chloe stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To O’Hare.”
“She might not be working.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Ethan.”
I looked at the engagement ring on her hand.
Then at her face.
“You saw my children three years ago.”
Her eyes filled.
“I didn’t know they were definitely yours.”
“You knew Samantha was my ex-wife.”
“Yes.”
“You knew she had twins roughly the right age.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing.”
Chloe cried.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Losing you.”
That answer hurt because it sounded almost reasonable.
Almost.
Then I remembered two children growing up without me.
“You let your fear make decisions for four people.”
I walked out.
At O’Hare, I spent three hours moving between terminals.
No Samantha.
At 4:26 p.m., an airport supervisor finally told me her shift began at six.
I waited outside the employee entrance.
At 6:03, Samantha appeared.
She saw me.
Stopped.
Then closed her eyes.
“You know.”
I could not decide whether I wanted to apologize, demand answers, or fall apart.
So I said the only thing I could.
“Two?”
Samantha’s face changed.
Her exhaustion disappeared beneath something older.
“Yes.”
“A boy and a girl?”
“Yes.”
“Noah?”
Her eyes filled.
“And Lily.”
Lily.
My grandmother’s name.
Samantha had loved her.
I covered my mouth.
“How old are they?”
“Four.”
“Four what?”
“Four years, seven months.”
I looked away.
“I want to see them.”
Samantha’s face hardened immediately.
“No.”
The answer shocked me.
“They’re my children.”
“They’re children, Ethan. Not missing property you just discovered.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
“My mother—”
“I know what your mother did.”
“Then why punish me?”
Samantha stepped closer.
“I’m not punishing you.”
Her eyes filled.
“I’m protecting two children who don’t know you exist.”
I stared at her.
“What have you told them?”
“That their father lives far away.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s enough for four-year-olds.”
My chest tightened.
“Do they know my name?”
“No.”
“Have they seen me?”
Samantha hesitated.
Then looked toward the terminal windows.
“Noah has.”
“What?”
She swallowed.
“At the airport yesterday.”
My heart stopped.
“He was here?”
“With my coworker in the food court.”
“Which one was he?”
“You walked past him.”
The world tilted.
“What?”
“He was sitting beside the window with a red backpack.”
I remembered.
A small boy.
Dark hair.
A toy airplane in one hand.
He had looked at me longer than children usually looked at strangers.
I had smiled.
He smiled back.
Then Chloe pulled me toward baggage claim.
I stared at Samantha.
“I walked past my son.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
I pressed a hand against my chest.
“And Lily?”
“At preschool.”
I could barely breathe.
“Samantha, please.”
She looked at me for a long time.
Then said:
“If I let you meet them, you do it my way.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t tell them you’re their father immediately.”
I almost objected.
Then stopped.
“They need time.”
“I understand.”
“No promises you can’t keep.”
“Okay.”
“No expensive gifts.”
I almost laughed.
“Why does everyone think I—”
She gave me a look.
Fair.
“And your mother does not come near them.”
That one came without hesitation.
“Agreed.”
Samantha studied me.
“You really mean that?”
“Yes.”
Then I asked:
“When?”
She looked exhausted.
Terrified.
Still angry.
“Saturday.”
Two days.
I nodded.
“Where?”
She gave me the name of a small neighborhood park in Des Plaines.
I turned to leave.
Then stopped.
“Samantha.”
She looked at me.
“Why are you cleaning floors?”
Her expression changed.
I regretted it immediately.
Not because the work was beneath her.
Because the question carried everything I had failed to know.
She looked toward the terminal.
“When you raise twins alone, careers become whatever keeps everybody fed.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.”
“For what?”
“Don’t apologize before you know what you’re apologizing for.”
She walked inside.
I stood there watching her disappear into the airport.
Saturday suddenly felt impossibly far away.
But the worst part was knowing my son had already seen me once.
May you like
And I had smiled at him like he was somebody else’s child.
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