Embarazada para el Hijo de mi Profesor

The medical report slipped from my hand and dropped to the floor.

I stared at the two names on the marriage certificate for a long time, thinking I must have somehow read it wrong.

But when I looked through the rest of the documents, I realized what a fool I had been.

There were pediatric hospital bills, receipts for baby formula and diapers, records of overseas transfers, and several photographs.

In one of the pictures, my late wife, Michelle Austen, was holding a baby boy. My brother, Jack Sloane, sat on the couch beside her, looking down at the baby with a gentle smile.

She wasn't dead. For five years, I'd been mourning her like a complete fool. And the person who had pulled me out of the darkest place in my life had set up this entire lie.

I put everything back in the drawer.

On my way to the bathroom, I picked up the medical report, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it in the trash.

Minutes ago, it had felt like good news. Now it was nothing but a cruel joke.

The front door clicked open.

"Trevor?" Michelle's sister, Paige Austen, bent down to change her shoes, holding a bakery bag.

When she saw my pale face, she reached out to touch my forehead.

I instinctively stepped back.

Her hand froze in midair, and her expression flickered. "What's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?"

"No," I replied without looking at her.

She studied me for a couple of seconds before taking a pair of slippers from the shoe cabinet and setting them by my feet.

"You're not wearing socks again. Here, put these on."

She was always attentive to little things like that. It used to make me feel cared for.

Back when I was at my lowest, she was the one who stayed by my side to make sure I took my meds, woke me up from nightmares in the middle of the night, and slowly pulled me back from the brink.

I thought she was my salvation.

But now, standing there, I felt cold all over.

"I picked up some chestnut pastries for you." She set the paper bag on the table. "You mentioned wanting some the other day, so I grabbed them on my way home."

She was always very thoughtful, even remembering the things I mentioned in passing.

With just one look, she could tell whether I was doing okay.

I used to think that meant she cared. I had clung to the warmth and comfort she gave me, completely blind to the warning signs right in front of me.

She went into the kitchen to warm some milk, then took out my medication.

"Did you take your medicine today?" she asked.

"No."

"Take it now, okay?" She held out the pills, her voice as gentle as ever.

Looking at the pills, I felt a chill run through me.

For the past five years, she had kept better track of my episodes, my follow-up appointments, and my emotional breakdowns than I did.

She knew every one of my weaknesses.

I looked straight at her. "Paige."

"Yeah?"

"If I ever found out that Michelle was alive all along, would you think I was a fool?" I watched her face closely.

She paused for a moment, then her voice grew quieter. "You went into my study today?"

I didn't answer.

She set down her glass and walked into the study. A few moments later, I heard a drawer slide open.

When she came back out a couple of minutes later, her expression was completely calm.

"Those are just old documents. Please don't go snooping through my things," she said. "You've been under a lot of stress lately, and your anxiety is making you overthink. I'll go with you to your follow-up appointment tomorrow."

I almost laughed. Even now, she was still trying to lie to me. "I'm not going."

She stared at me. "Why?"

"There's no point. I'm not going to get better anyway."

"Trevor!" Her voice sharpened with irritation.

"I said I'm not going." I raised my voice.

Silence settled between us.

After a long while, Paige finally nodded. "Fine. Let's just eat."

Halfway through dinner, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, got up, and walked onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind her.

I had never thought anything of it before. But now, it felt like something was lodged in my chest.

She came back a short while later. "I need to go somewhere tomorrow night."

"Where?"

"A friend's place. Her son is sick, so I'm going to check on him," she said.

My grip tightened on my fork. She said it so casually, as if she were talking about the most ordinary thing in the world. But I knew she was talking about Michelle and Jack's son.