Chapter 2 - THE BOY WHO CALLED ME DAD
For almost ten seconds, nobody moved.
The little boy stood between Emily and me.
He was holding the edge of her sweater with one hand.
The other hand hung at his side.
His eyes never left my face.
I had seen those eyes before.
Not on him.
On myself.
Every morning when I shaved.
Every time I looked into the mirror before stepping into a boardroom.
The same gray.
The same slight crease between the eyebrows when something didn't make sense.
I swallowed.
“What did you just say?”
Emily wiped her cheeks.
“Daniel, please.”
“No.”
My voice came out harsher than I intended.
She flinched.
I immediately hated myself for it.
Nine years ago, I had spoken to her that way.
And I had watched her leave.
I wouldn't repeat it.
Not tonight.
I looked at the boy.
“What is your name?”
“Noah.”
“How old are you?”
“Seven.”
Seven.
The number landed like a blow.
I did the math automatically.
Seven years.
Nine years since Emily left me.
Seven years since…
I couldn't finish the thought.
Then a little girl appeared behind him.
She was perhaps five.
Long brown hair.
Pink pajamas.
A stuffed rabbit tucked beneath one arm.
She stopped when she saw me.
Her eyes widened.
“Mom?”
Emily immediately turned.
“Lily, go back to your room.”
“But—”
“Now.”
The girl obeyed, but not before looking at me one more time.
I watched her disappear down the hallway.
Then I looked at Emily.
“Two children.”
She said nothing.
“Mine?”
Her lips trembled.
“Daniel, this isn't how I wanted you to find out.”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“You didn't want me to find out?”
She looked down.
“You told me to leave.”
The words were quiet.
They hurt more than shouting would have.
“You told me you didn't want me. You told me I was holding you back. Then you watched me walk out.”
“I was angry.”
“So was I.”
“You were more than angry.”
I couldn't argue.
She was right.
I stepped inside.
The house smelled like wood smoke and something warm cooking on the stove.
There were children's drawings taped to the refrigerator.
A calendar.
Two school backpacks.
A pair of tiny coats.
A cheap wooden table.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing polished.
Nothing like the mansion I had once shared with her.
And somehow, it felt more like a home than the mansion ever had.
I looked at the kitchen table.
There were three plates.
Emily had been preparing dinner.
Three.
Then I noticed a fourth plate sitting upside down beside the sink.
My chest tightened.
“You were expecting someone?”
“No.”
“Then why four plates?”
She didn't answer.
Noah walked into the kitchen.
“Mom, is he staying?”
Emily froze.
“No.”
Noah looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because he can't.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
She stopped.
The boy looked at me again.
Then he asked the question that broke whatever remained of my carefully controlled life.
“Are you my dad?”
Emily closed her eyes.
I couldn't speak.
Noah waited.
He didn't look scared.
He looked hopeful.
That was worse.
I crouched until we were eye level.
“I don't know yet.”
Emily's head snapped toward me.
I continued.
“But I'm going to find out.”
Noah nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
Then he smiled.
Just a little.
That tiny smile destroyed me.
Because I knew immediately that if he was mine, I had already missed seven birthdays.
Seven Christmas mornings.
Seven first days of school.
Seven years of bedtime stories.
Seven years of him learning how to ride a bicycle without me.
I stood.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Emily looked at me for a long time.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
She looked toward the window.
“Your family.”
I stared at her.
“My family?”
She nodded.
“Your father knew about the children.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
“What?”
“He knew.”
“How?”
“Because he came here.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
I felt something inside me shift.
“My father has never been to Kentucky.”
Emily gave me a sad smile.
“You didn't know everything about your father, Daniel.”
“My father is dead.”
“I know.”
The silence became unbearable.
Then Emily walked to an old cabinet and pulled out a metal box.
She placed it on the table.
It was scratched and rusted.
She unlocked it.
Inside were photographs.
Letters.
A hospital bracelet.
And a small envelope.
She pushed the envelope toward me.
My name was written on it.
Daniel Whitmore.
My hands began to shake.
“What's this?”
“Something I was supposed to give you years ago.”
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
A newborn baby.
On the back, there was a date.
Seven years earlier.
And beneath it, four words.
YOUR SON IS ALIVE.
I looked up.
Emily was crying again.
“Why would someone want me to believe he was dead?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, Noah suddenly spoke from behind me.
“Because that's what they told Mom.”
I turned.
He was holding the edge of the doorway.
“They said if she told you, they would take us away.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who told her?”
Noah looked at Emily.
Emily's face had gone white.
Then she whispered the name.
“Richard.”
I knew that name.
Richard Whitmore.
My father's younger brother.
My uncle.
And according to the official family records, Richard had been dead for six years.
I stared at Emily.
“Richard died six years ago.”
She shook her head.
“No, Daniel.”
May you like
Her voice trembled.
“He didn't.”
