Page 115 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

But I can hear the rest anyway. I still have to ask.

“It’s okay. I know he’s your son,” I say softly, ignoring the sting. “If he was mine, I’d ask too.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy and uncertain.

“I believe you,” he says finally.

My chest caves in on itself.

I nod, but the fear doesn’t go anywhere. It just sits there, waiting.

“This isn’t about… everything else,” I say, gesturing vaguely between us. “Is it?”

Because I guess that might come across as me being inappropriate with a father. With him. But that isn’t something I have ever done before.

Wayne exhales slowly. “This is separate.”

But it isn’t. Not really.

Nothing is separate anymore.

“I don’t know what we are yet,” he admits.

That hurts, even though it’s honest.

He checks the time, keys already in hand.

“I have to get to work.”

Of course he does. He’s always at work, avoiding me, I assume.

At the door, he hesitates. “I’m not making decisions based on anonymous emails.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “Thanks.”

The door closes, and suddenly the house feels fragile again.

I sink into a chair and press my hands over my face.

I did everything right. I left quietly. I didn’t fight. I didn’t scream. I survived the way women are taught to. By shrinking.

And it followed me anyway.

The fear curls low and cold in my gut.

What if this is it? What if I lose everything again? My job, my home, the one place that finally might want me to stay?

I sit there in the quiet and try not to fall apart.

I don’t entirely succeed.

Then I hear it.

A soft thud overhead. The creak of little feet hitting the floor. “Juuune?”

His voice is thick with sleep.

“I’m here!” I call, forcing steadiness into my voice. Time to get myself together.