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“Nice to meet you, Ewan. Why don’t you go back to your parents?” I suggest.
He tilts his head toward me. “What happened to your hand?”
I glance down at my injured right hand, trying to clench it into a weak fist, but failing miserably. “It was hurt, so now it doesn’t work well.”
“Oh.” Ewan tilts his head thoughtfully. “Maybe my mommy can help you. She makes boo-boos better.”
“She does, huh?” I ask, wondering if this kid belongs to one of the therapists. I don’t think Seraphina should let them bring their children to work, isn’t that kind of dangerous?
“Yes, Mom is good at that.” Ewan nods enthusiastically. “Or I can play with you. I’m learning.”
Before I can react, he hops up onto the piano bench beside me and starts plunking out a discordant tune with one small hand.
“That’s terrible,” I complain without thinking.
The boy’s chin trembles, eyes downcast. “I’m just learning. Mom says one day I’ll be great. I come from a long family of musicians. My uncle Zane was famous.”
My blood drains at the mention of Zane. That’s when I really look at the child beside me. He’s the spitting image of Joplin at this age, but with darker hair, like Zane or Seraphina’s. My heart beats fast.
“How old are you?” I ask slowly.
“Six and three-quarters,” he responds proudly. “I’m older than my sister Aria.”
“How old is your sister?” I ask, curious, trying to piece things together. Did Seraphina get married? Date some other guy . . . What’s happening?
“Is she four?” I add, not waiting for his answer.
“No, silly. She’s six and three-quarters minus ten minutes,” he says with precision and grins again.
“You’re twins,” I mumble.
“Yep, two peads in pods,” he says and I can’t correct him though. I’m speechless, mind racing to connect the dots.
He’s definitely Sephie’s son. She has twins. The dad though . . . This boy, Ewan, can’t be my son. But when I study him I see the resemblance. He’s me with a little of Sephie.
Fuck, I’m a father? How could she not tell me?
Ewan continues chatting away about Ary and things I can’t process because I’ve been hit with the worst best news in my entire life. He’s unaware of the chaos his existence is creating.
“Your mom is Seraphina?” I finally interject, needing confirmation.
He bobs his head in affirmation. “People call her Sera. Grandfather Thatcher called her Fifi—but he didn’t like us. He was mean to Ary and me.”
I look at him, really look at him, and I know this boy is mine. I’m frozen, not knowing what to do. Hug him, call him mine. Yell at Seraphina for not telling me I’m a father.
She’s had several years to tell me about them. It’s a simple text, we have two children. How hard is that?
Seraphina never breathed a word. I deserved to know about them. I’m reeling, struggling to reconcile this revelation. I have two children—two six-year-olds I’ve never met. Shock gives way to a myriad of emotions. Confusion, hurt, anger . . . and underneath it all, tentative wonder.
I’m a father.
I.
Am.
A.
Father.
