He Might Be Our Father

The Hart home in Marlowe felt quiet without their mother. Agnes hummed in the kitchen, and the smell of warm bread drifted out. Grandpa Wilfred sat in his armchair with a book, his glasses slipping down his nose. Everything looked calm, normal.

But Nathaniel felt the change. He settled by the living room table, laptop open. The screen’s glow lit his hazel eyes, steady and focused. Charlotte had tried to pull him away earlier, tugging his sleeve with a pile of dolls and her usual smile. He had brushed her off, too deep in concentration.

He’d seen the news about their Mom that morning. Her face in camera flashes, reporters shouting questions. "Are you and Dr. Evert together?" "Did he fund your research?" The clips played again and again like a storm. Charlotte had shrugged and gone back to her toys. Nathaniel had kept watching.

Now his fingers moved quickly and calmly. He followed the online talk the way his Mom had taught him in simple, safe exercises, threads, usernames, small hints building into a bigger picture. Quiet, patient, careful.

Charlotte dragged her little chair beside him, swinging her legs. "Doing your sneaky spy stuff again?" she whispered over his shoulder.

Nathaniel didn’t answer. His jaw was tight.

She leaned closer, "You're supposed to play with me." she said, dropping two dolls on the table. "They've been waiting."

“Not now.” His eyes stayed on the screen.

"You sound like Mom," she teased. "Not now, Charlotte. Later."

He typed faster. "Because it's important," he said.

“Important like saving the world?” she asked, making a face, then grinned. “Or like finding candy?”

"Neither," he said flatly.

She rolled her eyes. "You're so serious. You're only five, Nate. You don't have to act like Grandpa Wilfred."

He looked up at last. Even his small smile made him seem older. "If we don’t ask questions, we’ll never know the truth. Don’t you want to know why people talk about Mom? About us?"

Charlotte’s grin faded. "Mom said we don't have to worry about that stuff. She said we're safe."

“Safe doesn’t mean stop thinking.”

“You think too much.”

“Maybe you don’t think enough.”

Her mouth dropped open, then she laughed. “See? You really do sound like a grown-up. Next you’ll tell me to eat broccoli.”

Nathaniel ignored her, turning the laptop. Headlines flashed: Boardroom Rift at Vaughn Enterprises. Family Tensions Mount. A name repeated across articles and forums... Vaughn.

His pulse jumped. He clicked deeper. A photo loaded.

A man in a sharp suit, dark hair, piercing eyes. Sebastian Vaughn.

Nathaniel froze.

The face could have been his, older, sharper, same jawline, same weight in the eyes.

He glanced at Charlotte. Her blue eyes, Sebastian’s blue eyes, looked back, wide with curiosity.

She leaned closer. “He looks like you. No, he looks like me.” She pointed at her eyes, proud.

Nathaniel’s throat tightened. “He might be our father.”

Charlotte’s smile vanished. “For real?”

“For real.”

She fiddled with her doll, chewing her lip. "So, why didn't Mom just tell us?"

"She did," Nathaniel said. Mom’s voice echoed softly in his mind: Your father is alive, but we don’t see him. When I left Atheria, I was already carrying you. Things were complicated and not safe. One day, I’ll tell you everything. For now, you are loved, and nothing about his choices changes that.

Charlotte frowned. "That’s not the same as seeing him."

"No," he admitted quietly. "It’s not."

Footsteps came down the hall. Nathaniel tensed. With a quick tap, he hid the screen in a blank worksheet and snapped the laptop half-shut. Agnes walked past, humming, wiping her hands on a towel. She smiled, then kept going.

Nathaniel breathed out and opened the screen again. Charlotte watched.

“You practiced that,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. “You have to be ready.”

Charlotte chewed her lip. “You’re really serious, huh?”

“More than you think.” He spoke softer. “Mom’s on her flight back to Marlowe. I heard Grandpa.”

Charlotte brightened. “So she’s coming home?”

“Yes. But until then…” He leaned closer, hazel eyes sharp. “We don’t tell anyone what we found. Not Nana. Not Grandpa. No one.”

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because Mom didn't tell them yet either. And if she didn't, there's a reason. We can't mess that up."

She nodded slowly. "Okay. But you’ll tell me everything you find, right?"

"Promise."

Her grin returned, softer this time. "Good. Then hurry up and finish your spy stuff, so we can play."

But Nathaniel was already saving files. He worked in steps, just as his mother had taught him. A hidden folder called Homework2 looked normal: Math, Science, Reading. Inside were screenshots, saved links, files named Family-1, Board Trouble, Natasha-2. He showed Charlotte how they looked harmless.

“You’re hiding homework in homework,” she giggled.

“It keeps it safe,” he said calmly.

She leaned in. “What’s that one?” she asked.

He opened it: a photo of Sebastian at a gala, Natasha Fairfax on his arm. The caption read: Mrs. Vaughn.

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “She looks mean. Mommy’s prettier and nicer.”

Nathaniel felt a small sting. He looked at Charlotte, stubborn and small. He zoomed in on Sebastian and Natasha. His chest tightened. “If he had her… then what about us?” he whispered.

Charlotte dressed her doll and said lightly, “I don’t care. We have Uncle Adam. He’s nice. He plays with us. That’s enough.”

Nathaniel stayed on the screen. He clicked through more files, saving names, headlines, and usernames from comment threads. He bookmarked quiet forums where rumors lived. On his notepad he drew arrows from Sebastian’s name to Natasha, circling Vaughn Enterprises again and again.

Piece by piece, he built a map.

What choices had Sebastian made? And why had those choices cost them their place in his life?

Charlotte tugged his sleeve. “Nate… you’ll tell me when you know, right?”

He nodded. "Yes, I will."

And as Charlotte leaned back, humming to herself, Nathaniel kept working.

He didn’t know where the trail ended. But he would find it. If their father wouldn’t come to them, Nathaniel would uncover the truth himself.

Piece by piece.