Chapter Fourty Two

Jake

The house has quieted down now.

It’s a different kind of quiet than the one I left behind in Kyla’s room. That quiet was heavy, suffocating, filled with all the things neither of us said. This one, this one is soft, gentle, broken only by the hushed giggles of two kids trying to fight sleep.

I lean against the doorframe of the guest room they insisted on sharing, arms crossed over my chest, pretending I’m unaffected. But the truth is, I can’t look away.

Chanel is curled up in a nest of blankets, one hand clutching a doll she refused to part with even for bedtime. Elias sprawls sideways across the mattress like he owns the place, his hair sticking up in messy tufts, his mouth open just enough to let out tiny snores.

“Mommy says I have to sleep,” Chanel had whispered earlier when I tried to leave. Her big eyes locked on mine, pleading. “But you have to stay until we fall asleep. That’s the rule.”

She said it with such certainty, as if I had been here every night of her life, as if this was routine.

And I stayed. God help me, I stayed.

I sat on the edge of their bed while they whispered secrets and traded stories about what they’d do tomorrow. Elias wants to build a fort big enough to “fit a dragon.” Chanel wants a tea party with invisible guests. Their imaginations run wild, filling the room with a world I’ve never been part of.

But I wanted to be.

The thought blindsides me, sharp and raw. I wanted to be part of this, the chaos, the bedtime battles, the laughter that fades into dreams. I wanted to know what their giggles sound like when they are overtired, what their little hands feel like when they tug at me for comfort in the middle of the night.

And yet, I wasn’t here. I wasn’t even aware they existed.

My jaw tightens as the questions return, each one sharper than the last.

Why didn’t she tell me?

How long has she been keeping this from me?

Was she afraid of me? Or did she think I didn’t deserve to know?

My eyes drift to Elias again, and my chest constricts. The boy is a mirror. My mirror. Same nose, same stubborn chin, same crease above the brow when he sleeps. I don’t need a test, not really. My gut knows. My blood knows.

He is mine.

They are both mine.

Which makes me think about my actual son, Ethan. I was there the moment he was born, I helped cut his umbilical cord. I was there for the diaper changes, for everything, we had a special bond, At least I thought we did until I few hours ago, when I met this two. 

The feeling is completely different. 

The weight of that truth presses down so hard I have to sit. I lower myself into the armchair by the window, keeping my eyes on the bed. My hands rub over my face, but the image doesn’t change when I uncover them. Two small bodies, safe and peaceful, breathing in sync with a world that has never hurt them the way it hurt their mother.

I want to protect them.

I want to protect her.

But the anger is still there too, simmering beneath the surface. She robbed me of years. She let me walk through life thinking we were done, thinking she’d moved on without me, when the truth was growing inside her. Two truths. Flesh and blood. My children.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the turmoil doesn’t stop. My mind races with images of what could have been first steps, first words, birthdays, scraped knees, bedtime stories. All stolen from me.

No. Not stolen. Hidden.

And now that I’ve seen them, now that I’ve felt their little hands tugging mine, heard them call her “Mommy,” watched them look at me with instant, unearned trust, I can’t unsee it. I can’t unknow it.

They belong to me as much as they belong to her.

The thought terrifies me more than it empowers me. Because what if I screw this up? What if I’m not the man I should be for them? For her? I’ve already failed once walked away, left Kyla to carry this burden alone. Do I even have the right to step in now?

I glance back at the bed. Chanel shifts in her sleep, tucking closer to her brother, her small hand draped across his chest like she’s protecting him even in dreams.

My throat burns.

They are perfect. Completely, impossibly perfect.

And somehow, they are mine.

I sit there longer than I should, my body tense with emotions I can’t name. Part of me wants to march back into Kyla’s room, demand the truth, demand answers, demand why she thought I didn’t deserve to know.

But another part of me, the part that watches these kids breathe, the part that feels something deep and primal stir in my chest knows it’s not the time. They are asleep, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing around them.

And maybe, just for tonight, they deserve this peace.

So I stay in the chair, silent, torn apart by contradictions just watching them sleep so peacefully with no idea the storm that is about to enter their little lives. 

Because I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.