"I don't know if I'm ready," I whisper.
"None of us are ready." My mother's voice cracks. "But we're running out of time, sweetheart."
There's a slight pause. “The boys should meet their grandfather while they still can. He deserves to know them, Mia."
Guilt crashes over me in waves. She's right. Of course she's right. But the thought of walking into that house, of facing my father's questions, of watching him meet Rory and Corey for the first time while knowing I kept them from him for nine years...
"Okay," I hear myself say. "What time?"
"Six o'clock. I'll make his favorite meal." Her voice softens. "Thank you, Mia. I know this is hard, but it's the right thing."
After we hang up, I sit in the darkness of my living room, my phone clutched in my hand. After a while, I go to bed, but I don't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see my father's face and imagine his expression when he learns the truth.
By the time dawn breaks, I've run through a hundred different scenarios, none of them ending well. I get the twins ready forschool in a fog, barely hearing their chatter. They're so excited, so innocent, completely unaware that their world is about to shift on its axis.
The day drags by with agonizing slowness. I try to work, but I can't focus. I try to clean, but I keep stopping mid-task, frozen by anxiety. By the time I need to pick up the twins from school, my hands are shaking.
The day goes by both too slow and too fast. Soon, it's evening and we're on our way to my parents' house.
I ring the doorbell and the door opens almost immediately, like my mother was waiting right behind it. Tears are already streaming down her face as she looks at the twins, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Oh my God," she whispers. "Oh my God, they're beautiful."
Behind her, I can see into the living room. My father sits in his recliner, looking frailer than I remember, his skin pale and paper-thin. But that's not what makes my blood run cold.
Standing next to my father, holding a glass of iced tea and smiling like he belongs there, is Jack. His eyes meet mine across the distance, and something flickers in them. Surprise? Triumph? I can't tell.
And sitting on the couch across from them, looking equally comfortable and possessive, is Marcus. He raises his glass to me in a small salute, that same confident smile playing on his lips.
28
JACK
The glass of iced tea in my hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. I stand frozen in the Wilsons' living room, my entire world tilting sideways as Mia walks through the front door.
She stops dead when she sees me, her blue eyes going wide with shock that I'm certain mirrors my own expression. For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other across the familiar space where I've spent countless evenings with Robert discussing everything from sports to politics to the state of education in America.
Then my gaze drops to the two small hands clutching hers.
Twin boys. Identical, from what I can tell. Dark hair like Mia's, fair skin dusted with freckles. They can't be more than nine years old, and they're staring up at me with open curiosity.
But it's their eyes that steal the breath from my lungs. The same unusual shade I see in the mirror every morning. The same eyes my daughter Emma inherited from me.
My mind races backward, calculating ages, dates, timelines. Ten years since that Fourth of July night. Nine months of pregnancy. These boys are nine years old.
The math adds up with devastating clarity.
"Jack!" Linda's voice breaks through my paralysis. She's hovering near Mia with an expression I can't quite read. Nervous? Guilty? "I didn't realize Robert had invited you over today."
"He asked me to stop by to discuss the upcoming school fundraiser." My voice sounds remarkably steady considering my heart is trying to punch through my ribcage. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"Of course not." Linda's smile is too bright, too forced. "You're always welcome here. You know that."
Robert’s gaze lands on Mia and the boys, and something shifts in his expression. Wonder. Joy. A hint of tears gather in his eyes.
"There they are," he says softly. "My grandsons."
The word hits me like a physical blow. Grandsons. Does he know who fathered them?
