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He nods.
We cross the parking lot hand in hand, making our way toward the garden. As the rain drums down, the park empties out, until we’re some of the only people left walking the paths.
It’s easy to find the lone woman sitting on a park bench, dressed in nurse’s scrubs and a light jacket. She holds a blue umbrella open overhead.
As we approach, she looks up. Slowly, she lowers the umbrella and stands, uncovered, in the rain.
Rose Copeland is smaller than I expected—only a few inches taller than me. She’s beautiful—I knew that from her photograph. But unlike Yelena, long, unhappy years have worn themselves into her face. She’s one of the saddest-looking women I’ve ever seen.
The rain beating down on her head darkens her hair from honey-blond to light brown. She can’t tear her eyes off Dean’s face.
Dean walks up to her, rigid and blanched.
I don’t know what he’s feeling in this moment. I don’t know how he’ll react.
Mother and son look at each other for a long time.
Then, finally, Dean manages to say, “I missed you.”
Rose’s face crumples. She collapses against Dean, sobbing against his chest. Dean puts his arms around her, stroking her back gently, not unlike how Leo comforts his baby sister.
We all sit down on the bench together, sharing the umbrella overhead.
I can’t help crying, but I try to do it quietly so I don’t draw attention away from Dean and his mother.
Dean puts his arm around me anyway, holding his mother on one side and me on the other.
“I could never . . . explain to you . . .” his mother sobs.
“It’s alright, Mom,” Dean says, quietly. “I know why you left.”
She looks up into his face, her pale blue eyes as translucent as glass under their film of tears. “You do?” She says.
“Yes,” Dean says. “Because of her.”
He nods toward a willow tree a dozen yards away. In the protected shelter beneath the low-hanging branches, a little blonde girl sits on a picnic blanket, headphones over her ears, reading a chapter book.
“That’s Frances,” Rose says.
“You were pregnant,” I say, understanding at last.
Rose nods. “Adrian was . . . deteriorating. The pregnancy was accidental. When I realized it was a girl . . .” A shudder runs down her slim frame. “I know how the Bratva treat their girls.”
Dean’s lips tighten.
He might have dismissed that fear several months ago. But he’s spent enough time talking with his Aunt Yelena to understand what her life was like, growing up as the only daughter of a Bratva boss. Her experience was much different than her brother Adrian’s.
“I thought Adrian would take care of you at least,” she says, quietly. “His heir.”
“I saw him push you,” Dean says, his face darkening.
She nods. “I hit my head. And that night I had spotting . . . I thought I might lose the baby. When I didn’t . . .” her face contorts in misery, and she has to work to regain enough control to get her words out. “I didn’t want to leave you, Dean. I knewhe’d never let you go. I never meant to choose between you and Frances. I thought you’d each have one parent. It seemed like all I could do, under the circumstances. But I’ve regretted it . . . every day since . . .”
She breaks down again, the rain washing her tears away as quickly as they fall. I try to shift the umbrella to cover her better.
Dean holds her, his hands trembling from how tightly he’s squeezing her.
“I don’t want to be angry anymore,” he says. “I don’t want to be full of regret. And I don’t want that for you, either.”
