Chapter 2 - The Pregnancy My Mother Buried
Nobody moved.
Not my mother.
Not my aunt.
Not me.
Lauren stood at the end of the hallway holding the leather case against her chest.
For one moment, she looked like someone caught inside a room she had not realized contained witnesses.
I stared at her.
“What did you just say?”
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Mom recovered first.
“Lauren, give me that.”
I stepped between them.
“No.”
“Daniel.”
“No one touches anything.”
Lauren looked at me.
“You’re misunderstanding.”
“That sentence usually comes right before somebody admits I understood perfectly.”
Her face tightened.
“I only meant—”
“You told my mother she destroyed this.”
“No.”
“I heard you.”
“I said I thought she destroyed it.”
“That is not better.”
Aunt Diane pushed herself away from the kitchen island.
“What in God’s name is happening?”
I took the leather case from Lauren.
She resisted for less than a second.
That was enough.
Inside was the cream envelope.
My name stretched across the front in Claire’s handwriting.
I recognized it immediately.
For seven years, Claire had left notes everywhere.
On the refrigerator.
Inside my briefcase.
Beside the coffee machine.
Her D leaned slightly backward.
Her lowercase r looked almost like a v.
I had not seen that handwriting since our divorce.
Below my name were two words.
Tell him.
The envelope had been opened.
“Who opened this?” I asked.
Mom sat down.
I looked at her.
“Who?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“The day Claire brought it.”
“You opened a letter addressed to me?”
“She handed it to me.”
“To give to me.”
“She was emotional.”
“She was pregnant.”
Mom flinched.
“That is exactly what I mean.”
I laughed once.
There was nothing funny in it.
“You keep saying things like they make sense.”
“Daniel, you do not understand what those months were like.”
“I was there.”
“No, you weren’t. You were angry. Claire was angry. Every conversation became a battle.”
“So?”
“So when she appeared here saying she was pregnant three weeks after the divorce, I didn’t know what to believe.”
“You could have walked upstairs.”
Mom looked down.
“You could have walked upstairs and said, ‘Daniel, Claire is here.’”
“I thought you would stay.”
The answer stunned me.
“What?”
“I thought you would cancel Toronto.”
“Yes.”
“You had worked for that position for years.”
I stared at her.
“You hid my child because of a job?”
“It wasn’t only the job.”
“What else?”
Mom’s eyes flicked toward Lauren.
Again.
Lauren stepped backward.
I saw it.
“Why do you keep looking at her?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Lauren shook her head.
“Daniel, please.”
“Tell me why.”
Mom rubbed her forehead.
“This is getting out of control.”
“It has been out of control for five years. I’m just the last person learning about it.”
I looked at the envelope.
The flap had been carefully resealed.
My fingers shook when I opened it.
Inside were three sheets of paper.
The first was a laboratory report.
The second was an ultrasound image.
The third was a handwritten letter.
At the top of the report was Claire’s name.
Below it were medical details I barely processed.
Then the date.
December 11.
Five years earlier.
Gestational age: approximately eight weeks.
I sat down.
Eight weeks.
I did the calculation even though some part of me already had.
Our divorce was finalized three weeks before the report.
Claire would have been pregnant before we signed.
Before I left.
Before everything ended.
I picked up the ultrasound.
There was almost nothing recognizable.
A grainy shape.
Numbers along the edge.
A date.
But in the lower corner Claire had written:
I found out yesterday.
My throat closed.
I unfolded the letter.
Daniel,
I know you may not believe me. I know we said things we cannot take back. But this baby was conceived before the divorce, and I am certain you are the father.
I stopped.
The room disappeared around me.
I read further.
I am not asking you to come back to me. I am not asking you to repair our marriage because of a child. I only believe you have the right to know and the baby has the right to have a father who was given the choice to be present.
If you still want Toronto, go.
If you never want to speak to me except about the baby, I will accept it.
But please do not let your anger at me become something our child pays for.
Claire
At the bottom she had written a phone number.
Different from the number I remembered.
And beneath it:
Please call me before you leave.
I lowered the letter.
My mother was crying.
I had rarely seen her cry.
It did nothing to soften me.
“You read this?”
“Yes.”
“And then you put it away.”
“I intended to tell you later.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before or after my child learned to walk?”
“Daniel.”
“Before or after his first word?”
Her eyes closed.
“Don’t.”
“Before or after he started school?”
Lauren whispered, “Daniel, enough.”
I turned toward her.
“You don’t get to tell me what is enough.”
She went silent.
Aunt Diane looked sick.
“I thought Evelyn had told you after you settled in Toronto.”
Mom stared at her.
“You never asked.”
“I assumed!”
“That seems to be the family tradition,” I said.
I stood and walked toward the window.
A boy at the airport.
Five years old.
Light brown hair.
The way Claire had immediately moved beside him.
Mom.
Are we leaving?
My pulse hammered.
“What is his name?”
Mom looked confused.
“The boy.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve never seen him?”
“No.”
I turned.
“Claire never came back?”
Mom hesitated.
That hesitation was becoming unbearable.
“Mom.”
“She came once.”
“When?”
“About six months later.”
“What did she want?”
“To know whether you had received the letter.”
My hands curled.
“What did you tell her?”
Mom looked toward the floor.
“I told her you had.”
I stopped breathing.
“You told Claire I read it?”
“She asked if you knew.”
“And you said yes.”
Mom nodded.
“What else?”
“I told her you had gone to Toronto.”
“That’s true.”
“I told her you did not want contact.”
Aunt Diane whispered, “Evelyn.”
I stared at my mother.
“You told the pregnant mother of my child that I knew about him and chose to disappear?”
“I believed distance would be best.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone.”
“No. For you.”
Mom stood.
“You do not know what Claire did to you during that marriage.”
“What did she do?”
“She made you miserable.”
“We made each other miserable.”
“She threatened divorce constantly.”
“So did I.”
“She hated this family.”
“She hated being controlled by this family.”
The words came out before I thought about them.
Mom recoiled.
Five years earlier, I would have defended her.
Now I remembered Claire sitting at our kitchen table saying:
Your mother has an opinion on where we live, where we spend Christmas, when we should have children, how much money we should save, whether I should keep my job. And every time I ask you to set a boundary, you tell me she means well.
I had called Claire unreasonable.
Maybe she had been begging me to grow up.
I looked at Lauren.
“You knew.”
She shook her head.
“I knew there had been a letter.”
“That’s knowing.”
“I didn’t know what was inside.”
“Then why did you think Mom destroyed it?”
Lauren glanced toward Mom.
“Because she told me about it.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
My stomach turned.
“We didn’t meet until three years ago.”
Lauren said nothing.
“Why was my mother discussing my ex-wife’s pregnancy letter with a woman I hadn’t even met yet?”
Mom stepped in.
“That is not what happened.”
“Then explain it.”
Lauren folded her arms across herself.
“Your mother and I knew each other before you and I started dating.”
The floor seemed to shift again.
“How?”
“My father served on the board of the foundation with her.”
I knew Lauren’s father had worked in private equity.
I knew my mother volunteered with several charities.
I had never known they had met.
“How long?”
“Maybe seven years.”
“So when we met in Toronto—”
“It was still real.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Lauren’s eyes filled.
“Your mother knew I was moving there.”
I looked at Mom.
She sat very still.
“You introduced us?”
“No,” Mom said.
Lauren said, “Not exactly.”
I laughed again.
“Wonderful. Apparently we’re grading deception now.”
“I met you at a fundraiser in Toronto.”
“The fundraiser Mom told me to attend.”
Lauren went silent.
I suddenly remembered the email.
You’ve been hiding in that apartment too long. The foundation is hosting an event in Toronto. Go meet people.
Lauren had approached me near the bar.
She had joked about Canadian winters.
We talked for two hours.
I thought it was coincidence.
For three years, I thought it was coincidence.
I walked toward the counter and picked up my phone.
“Who are you calling?” Mom asked.
“Claire.”
“You don’t have her number.”
“No.”
I searched her name anyway.
Nothing useful.
Lauren moved closer.
“Daniel, don’t show up at the airport and corner her.”
“I’m not going to corner anyone.”
“She may not want you in her life.”
“I’m aware.”
“And the boy may not be yours.”
I looked at her.
Her face changed instantly.
Too late.
“Why did you say that?”
“It’s possible.”
“You saw him yesterday.”
“I barely looked at him.”
“Neither did I.”
“Daniel—”
“Why did that occur to you so quickly?”
“Because Claire could have had a child with somebody else.”
“After bringing my mother an ultrasound?”
“Yes.”
“You knew there was a child.”
“No.”
“You knew.”
“I didn’t.”
I looked toward Aunt Diane.
“Do you know where Claire lives?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“Do you have her number?”
“No.”
Then Diane remembered something.
“Wait.”
She reached into her purse.
“Christmas cards.”
Mom looked up sharply.
Diane ignored her.
“Claire sent me one after the baby was born.”
My knees almost weakened.
“You have it?”
“Not with me. At home.”
“What did it say?”
Diane looked toward Mom.
“I never mentioned it because I thought you knew.”
“What did it say?”
“There was a photograph.”
“A photograph of what?”
“Claire holding a baby.”
My mouth went dry.
“Boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
“What name?”
Diane thought.
“Ethan.”
The terminal returned in my mind.
Mustard hoodie.
Brown hair.
Mom, are we leaving?
Ethan.
“How old?”
“He was a newborn in the picture.”
“And what did Claire write?”
Diane’s eyes filled with regret.
“Merry Christmas from Claire and Ethan.”
“That’s all?”
“No.”
My chest tightened.
“What else?”
“She wrote, ‘He has Daniel’s eyes.’”
Nobody spoke.
I grabbed my keys.
Mom stood.
“Where are you going?”
“To Diane’s house.”
“I don’t think that is wise.”
I faced her.
“You forfeited your right to decide what is wise for me five years ago.”
Aunt Diane drove.
I sat beside her while Lauren followed in her rental car despite my telling her not to.
Diane lived twenty minutes away in Altadena.
The entire drive, I kept replaying Claire’s words.
Make an effort to live a better life this time.
Certain things are easier when you remain ignorant of the truth.
She had believed I abandoned her.
Not merely as a husband.
As a father.
At Diane’s house, she led me into a spare bedroom crowded with storage boxes.
“Christmas cards should be in one of these.”
We searched for fifteen minutes.
Then thirty.
Lauren appeared in the doorway.
“Daniel.”
I ignored her.
“Please talk to me.”
“Not now.”
“You need to understand something.”
“I’ve spent five years not understanding anything.”
Diane pulled out a red box.
“I found them.”
My heart stopped.
She opened it.
Cards.
Dozens.
She sorted through them.
Then she froze.
“What?”
Diane held up an empty envelope.
Claire’s name was on the return address.
But the photograph was missing.
“So where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Lauren made a small sound behind me.
I turned.
She was holding something.
A photograph.
I stared at her.
“Where did you get that?”
Her hand trembled.
“I need to explain.”
The photograph showed Claire sitting in a hospital bed holding a newborn.
On the back was a handwritten date.
And beneath it, one sentence:
Ethan Daniel Mercer — 7 pounds, 4 ounces.
I looked at Lauren.
“You had this.”
She began crying.
“Daniel—”
“How long?”
She backed toward the hallway.
“How long have you had a photograph of my son?”
Before she could answer, her phone lit up.
A message appeared across the screen.
The sender was my mother.
May you like
I read the preview before Lauren could hide it.
DO NOT LET HIM FIND THE PATERNITY REPORT.
