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Charlotte's heart raced as shefollowed, her mind a whirlwind of what ifs and maybes. The inevitableconfrontation loomed large, casting a shadow over the years of carefully builtwalls around her emotions. As they rounded the corner, Roxanne stopped so abruptlythat Charlotte nearly collided with her. There, examining a bottle of olive oilas if it held the secrets of the universe, was Henry. His profile wasunmistakable, even after all these years.
Roxanne's voice cut through the silencelike a knife. "Dad?" It was a question, an accusation, and a plea allrolled into one.
Henry's face, etched with lines of timeand a history left unspoken, paled under the weight of Roxanne's scrutiny."Roxanne," he said, his voice a mere breath, but it was drowned outby the rush of questions that followed.
"Where have you been?"Roxanne demanded, her hands planted firmly on her hips, her stance as imposingas the cliffs that guarded the shores of Chesham Cove. "And why choose nowto show up? In England, of all places?"
Charlotte's gaze flitted between them,her mind racing to keep up with the unraveling scene. She could feel the acheof old wounds reopening, the salt air of the cove seemingly swept into thestore to sting them afresh.
"Are you following us?"Roxanne’s words came like rapid-fire, each one loaded with years of pent-upanger and confusion. Her boldness, often a shield, now seemed like a sworddrawn in defense against the ghost of their past.
"No, I—" Henry began, butRoxanne cut him off, undeterred.
"Because if this is some sort ofgame, I swear—"
"Roxanne, please!" Charlotteinterjected, her voice strained but calm, the rolling waves of the nearby seawhispering through her plea for peace. "Let’s just listen for amoment."
But Roxanne's stormy gaze remainedfixed on their father, the intensity of her interrogation not faltering."I want answers. After all this time, you owe us that much."
Henry looked from one daughter to theother, a silent struggle flickering across his features. The air was thick withtension, every breath seeming to draw in the briny scent of the coastline,mingling with the sterile smell of the grocery store. Down the aisle, Charlottesaw an elderly couple peeking down the aisle at the scene.
"Answers..." His voice was amurmur, lost amidst the quiet clamor of the shop, the distant rattle of carts,and the soft hum of refrigerators framing the raw emotion of their impromptureunion.
Charlotte reached out, her handbrushing Roxanne's arm in a gentle attempt to quell the brewing tempest."Roxie," she whispered, employing the childhood nickname thatharkened back to simpler times, before their world had splintered.
Roxanne's fiery disposition simmered,but her eyes remained locked onto Henry's, unyielding and expectant. AsCharlotte stood there, caught between the tides of her sister's wrath and theenigma of her father's return, the air seemed to still as Henry's gaze flittedfrom Roxanne to Charlotte, the weight of years pressing into each furrow etchedupon his face. Charlotte's breath caught in her throat; the fragile silencebetween them was palpable, charged with a current that threatened to ignite atany moment.
"Who do you think are you,really?" Roxanne's voice cut through the tension like the brisk coastalwinds outside, sharp and unrelenting. "Why here? Why now?"
Before a single word could tumble fromHenry's lips, the automatic doors slid open with a gentle whoosh, admitting anunexpected player onto their emotional stage. A teenage boy, gangly limbs andall, sauntered into view. His hair was a tangle of chestnut waves, framingfeatures that held an echo of familiarity.
"Dad?" The boy’s voice, lacedwith confusion, brought a hush over the trio. He stopped short, his eyesbouncing between the adults before him, sensing the gravity of the scene he'dstumbled into.
Roxanne's stance stiffened, herattention snapping toward the newcomer. "Dad?" she echoed, a stormbrewing behind her eyes. "Who is this, Henry?"
Henry's shoulders slumped ever soslightly as he turned to address the boy. "Liam..."
"Wait," Roxanne intercepted,her voice a crescendo of disbelief. "Liam? This is your son?" Thewords were like stones tossed into the placid pond of Charlotte's heart,sending ripples across the surface of everything she thought she knew.
"Who are you?" Roxannedirected her interrogation at Liam now, her words barbs aimed to pierce theveil of mystery surrounding him.
Liam shuffled on his feet, casting aglance at Henry for guidance. His youth was apparent, a stark contrast to theseasoned lines of pain and wisdom on the faces of the women before him. Yet,there was something in his stance, a stoicism that belied his years—a traitundoubtedly inherited.
"Roxanne, please,"Charlotte interjected softly, her voice a balm trying to soothe the raw edgesof the moment. But the plea hung suspended, unheeded.
Henry opened his mouth, but it was Liamwho answered, his tone carrying a timbre of uncertainty that resonated in thequiet store. "I'm... I'm with my dad."
"Your dad?" Roxannerepeated, each syllable a hammer striking the chisel of betrayal lodged deepwithin her. "And what about us, huh? What does that make us?"
The question hung in the air,unanswered, the truth of their connection — or lack thereof — too complex forsimple labels. Charlotte felt the sting of tears threaten as she watched thetableau before her: her sister, a maelstrom of emotion; her father, a paragonof regret; and now young Liam, a living symbol of chapters left unread in thebook of their family's history.
Charlotte reached out, placing a gentlehand on Roxanne's rigid arm, her touch meant to pacify the brewing storm."Rox," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm in the starkfluorescence of the grocery store. "Let's just breathe for a moment."
She turned her gaze toward Henry,imploring with her eyes. "Please," she started again, steadying hervoice against the tremor of emotion that threatened to break through,"tell us why Liam is here with you."
Henry's face, etched with lines of timeand unspoken stories, seemed to crumple under the weight of scrutiny. Heshuffled awkwardly, as if his very stance could shield him from the piercingquestions. When he spoke, his voice was brittle, the sound of dried leavescrushed underfoot. "Liam is my son," he admitted, each wordseeming to cost him a piece of his resolve. "Your half-brother."
The revelation hung in the air.Charlotte felt the weight of it settle around her heart, cool and unsettling,as she processed the implications of Henry's words.
