He flinches at my words.
“I don’t mean that unkindly. I appreciate it, but you have three people who depend on you. You should keep it.”
He nods once. “Understood. But the offer stands. It’s yours if you need it.”
Charlotte leans into me, her head against my shoulder. My hand is already there, spread over the curve of her stomach, and beneath it our son moves.
She tilts her head, studying me. “Are you okay?”
I take a deep breath.
My whole life just got turned upside down.
Not in a bad way. Not really. More like discovering a piece of the story was wrong and realizing everything makes a little more sense with it in the right place.
“Ask me again in a week.”
I sit there with Charlotte’s hand in mine, trying to get my head around everything.
Mitchell isn't my father.
Marcus is.
Charlotte and I aren't siblings.
None of it feels real yet.
But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I'm fighting the truth.
I feel like I've finally found it.
Chapter 37
Charlotte Gallagher
The cottage feelsdifferent this week. Or maybe it’s just me.
I keep busy with things that don’t need doing—straightening things that are already straight, folding the same tiny stack of newborn clothes over and over.
Sometimes I just stand in the doorway of the nursery and look at it. Not for any particular reason. Just taking it in.
Christina calls it nesting. She says it like it’s obvious, like she’s seen it enough times to recognize it straight away.
Four times, to be exact, so I didn’t argue.
The baby, on the other hand, is in no hurry. He sits low and heavy, completely unbothered, like the outside world hasn’t made a strong enough case for him to join it yet.
Christina says he’ll come any day now.
I’ve stopped saying what I actually think: that this baby is his father’s son and will arrive exactly when he feels like it—not a second earlier.
Dane has his own version of nesting.
This morning he fixed the back door latch. Then he checked everything we already have set aside for the birth—towels, water, supplies, where everything goes. After that, he went to the shops and came back with enough groceries to feed us for weeks.
I’ve spent the last few days watching him move through the house like this.
Checking. Preparing. Fixing things that don’t really need fixing.
