My wealthy ex-husband mocked my modest lifestyle in first class, completely oblivious that the five-bedroom house I bought was for the twin sons he thought I couldn't have.

The tires hit the tarmac with a heavy thud, and the plane taxied toward Terminal B.

Nathaniel stood up immediately upon reaching the gate, gathering his leather briefcase. He insisted on walking beside me down the jetway, likely expecting me to feel intimidated by his presence in my home city.

"Do you have a driver waiting?" Nathaniel asked as we stepped into the bustling, sunlit airport terminal. "I have a car service picking me up for a board meeting at the Duke Energy Center. I could give you a lift if your house isn't too far out of the way."

"No thank you," I said, adjusting my canvas bag over my shoulder. "My family is picking me up."

"Your family?" Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. "Your parents passed away six years ago, Emily. Who do you have in Charlotte?"

I didn't answer.

Up ahead, near the security exit of Terminal B, a tall, handsome man with dark hair and a warm, kind smile was standing beside three identical wooden strollers. Beside him, three tiny four-year-old girls wearing matching yellow sundresses were bouncing on their toes behind the glass partition.

The moment the girls spotted me through the crowd, three high-pitched, joyous voices echoed across the polished marble lobby:

"MOMMY! MOMMY IS HOME!"

Before security guards could even react, the three little girls squirmed past the velvet rope, their little shoes squeaking against the floor as they sprinted across the terminal at full speed.

I dropped my canvas bag onto the floor, dropped to my knees, and opened my arms wide.

All three girls slammed into my chest at once, their small arms wrapping tightly around my neck, their soft blonde curls pressing against my cheeks as they showered my face with kisses.

"We missed you, Mommy!" four-year-old Lily giggled, holding up a wrinkled crayon drawing. "I drew a house with a pink roof for you!"

"I helped make chocolate chip cookies for when you got back!" four-year-old Clara chimed in, holding my hand tightly.

"And Daddy let us stay up till eight o'clock!" four-year-old Violet squealed, pointing back at the tall man walking toward us with a warm grin.

I hugged my three daughters so tightly my chest ached with pure, unadulterated happiness. "I missed you sweethearts so much!"

Standing five feet away, Nathaniel Whitcomb had stopped dead in his tracks.

His leather briefcase slipped from his hand, hitting the marble floor with a loud thud.

His face was completely drained of color. His jaw hung open as his eyes darted frantically from Lily’s face, to Clara’s face, to Violet’s face—and then to mine.

Three identical little girls. Bright blue eyes, soft blonde curls, and the exact, unmistakable facial structure of the Whitcomb family.