Chapter 8 - The Begging at the Door
The guests were scrambling to leave now. The fairy-tale baby shower had turned into a social execution, and nobody wanted to be caught in the fallout. People grabbed their coats, avoiding eye contact with Diane, who was still kneeling near the spilled macarons, sobbing into her designer scarf.
David walked beside me, carrying Owen on his shoulders, while I held Luke's little hand. We made our way down the carpeted corridor toward the main foyer.
"Claire! Claire, stop! Please!"
Footsteps echoed wildly behind us. It was Mark.
He caught up to us near the glass entrance doors, completely unhinged. His hair was messy, his jacket was torn at the lapel from David’s grip, and his eyes were bloodshot.
He didn't look at me. He dropped to his knees right in front of Luke.
"Luke... Luke, listen to me," Mark stammered, reaching out a trembling hand toward my son. "I'm your daddy. Do you understand? I'm your real dad."
Luke shrank back against my legs, his little face twisting into confusion and fear. "No you're not. Uncle David is our daddy."
"No, no, he's just your uncle!" Mark pleaded, tears spilling freely now. "I have a big house, Luke! I have a yard with a pool! I can buy you whatever toys you want! I'm your father!"
"Get away from him, Mark," I said, stepping between him and my boys.
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"Claire, please!" Mark looked up at me from the floor, clutching the hem of my coat. The man who had spent seven years making me feel less than human was now groveling at my feet. "They're my boys. They have my face! You can't keep them from me! I'll pay whatever you want! I'll make things right!"
"You can't buy four years of missed fevers, Mark," I told him, looking down with neither anger nor pity—only cold indifference. "You can't buy their first steps, their first words, or the nights they cried because other kids at preschool had fathers and they didn't. You gave up that right the day you decided my only value was my reproductive organs."
