5

Opal

"Oliver! Where is your left shoe? We have to leave in seven minutes!"

My voice echoed through our four-bedroom cottage, completely drowned out by the sound of a plastic dinosaur roaring in the hallway and the TV blaring morning cartoons.

"I didn't lose it, Mommy!" Oliver’s voice boomed back from the living room. "I put it in a safe place so the shoe monster wouldn't steal it!"

I pressed my palms against my face, taking a deep breath to steady myself. It was 7:45 AM on a rainy Tuesday. My hair was only half-curled, my coffee was already cold on the kitchen counter, and in less than two hours, I had a massive pitch presentation with a regional hotel chain looking for a complete interior design overhaul.

Five years ago, mornings in my life meant quiet, marble-lined halls, silence broken only by the gentle rustle of a morning newspaper, and a stoic butler placing freshly squeezed orange juice on a polished dining table. Life as Graham Morrison’s wife had been luxurious, pristine, and profoundly lonely.

My life now was loud, chaotic, perpetually sticky, and absolutely bursting with life.

Our house in Savannah, Georgia wasn't a sprawling estate. It was a charming, renovated two-story craftsman with a wrap-around porch and a big backyard. I had bought it myself two years ago with money I earned from my own firm, Haven Design Studio. Every throw pillow, every coat of paint, every piece of oak furniture was paid for by my late nights and hard work. No billionaire’s trust fund. No blood money settlements. Just me.

"Mommy, look at my hair!" Grace pranced into the kitchen, wearing her bright yellow raincoat over her floral school dress.

I stopped rubbing my temples and stared at my daughter. Grace had taken a pink plastic comb and three mismatched hair ties to her blonde curls, creating a series of wild, crooked ponytails that stuck out at gravity-defying angles.

"Sweetheart," I said gently, crouching down to her eye level. "It's... very creative! But let Mommy quickly fix the back so it doesn't pull on your head—"

"No!" Grace crossed her tiny arms, pouting her lower lip. "I did it all by myself! I look beautiful like a princess. Right, Grayson?"

Grayson walked into the kitchen, his school backpack already strapped squarely across his shoulders. At five years old, he was the oldest triplet by a mere four minutes, but he carried himself like an miniature adult. He had his father's sharp, dark eyes, his jawline, and his terrifying habit of observing everything in silence before speaking.

Grayson looked at his sister's chaotic hair, then looked up at me. "She looks like a hedgehog, Mommy. But if you try to fix it, she's going to cry for ten minutes and we'll be late."

I blinked at my five-year-old son, utterly stunned by his ruthless efficiency. "Point taken, Grayson. Hedgehog princess it is."

"I found my shoe!" Oliver burst into the kitchen, wearing one blue sneaker and triumphantly holding up the other, which he pulled directly out of his canvas schoolbag. "See? I put it in my bag last night so I wouldn't lose it this morning! I'm a genius."

"You put a dirty sneaker inside your backpack next to your lunchbox?" Grayson grunted, shaking his head. "You're a weirdo, Oliver."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Boys, stop," I interjected, grabbing Oliver’s shoe and slipping it onto his foot before tying the laces in record time. "Backpacks on. Water bottles in side pockets. Go, go, go!"

Despite the noise and the sheer exhaustion vibrating through my bones, a quiet, fierce warmth bloomed in my chest. Five years ago, I had boarded a bus out of New York with three tiny heartbeats inside me, convinced that my life was over. I thought the scandal, the betrayal, and the coldness of the world would crush me. But these three little humans calling me "Mommy" hadn't just saved my life—they had become my entire universe.

My phone chimed on the counter, signaling an incoming business call. I slid the screen open and put it on speaker while spreading peanut butter across three slices of toast.

"Opal, it's Sarah," my senior project manager’s energetic voice filled the kitchen. "Just confirming we have the physical material boards ready for the 10:00 AM meeting with the coastal resort group. They were really impressed by your initial portfolio."

"I have the boards loaded in my trunk already, Sarah," I replied, handing a slice of toast to Oliver, who immediately took a massive bite. "Tell them I’ll be at the office by nine-thirty. The client wants a warm, family-focused aesthetic, and trust me—I know a thing or two about families."

"You're a rockstar, Opal. See you soon!"

I hung up, setting the phone down. When I turned around, I caught Grayson staring up at me from the kitchen island. He wasn't eating his toast. He was just watching me with those deep, intensely serious eyes.

"What is it, Gray?" I asked, smiling softly as I reached out to smooth down a stray tuft of his dark hair. "Is there butter on my face?"

"Why do you look sad, Mommy?" he asked quietly.

My smile flickered. "I'm not sad, baby. I'm just thinking about my big meeting today."

Grayson didn't look convinced. He pointed a small finger toward the framed photograph hanging on the wall near the pantry. It was a professional portrait we had taken last fall—me sitting on a wooden bench in a field of sunflowers, laughing as Oliver, Grace, and Grayson piled on top of me.

"You always make that face when you look at that picture," Grayson noted, his voice remarkably steady. "You look at us, and then you look at the empty space beside you."

The breath caught in my throat. I looked at the picture. There were four of us. A mother and her three miracle children. But there was no father. There had never been a father in their physical world.

"I'm just grateful for my three little monkeys," I said, forcing a bright tone into my voice as I grabbed my purse and car keys. "Now, come on! The shoe monster is going to catch us if we don't leave right now!"

The drive to their elementary school was an absolute madhouse. The triplets fought over who got to pick the radio station, argued about whether chocolate milk was better than strawberry milk, and debated the crucial legalities of who was allowed to sit next to Grace in the middle row.

Oliver was loud, boisterous, and endlessly curious about everything outside the window. Grace was sweet and affectionate, but she possessed a quiet, terrifying charm that already had both of her brothers wrapped around her little finger. And Grayson sat quietly, acting thoroughly annoyed by their noise, yet he carefully reached over to hand Grace her fallen water bottle before she even realized she had dropped it.

They were a chaotic, perfect trio.

When we pulled up to the school curb, the rain had tapered off into a light mist. I walked them under my oversized umbrella into the warm, bright hallway of their kindergarten wing.

Their teacher, Mrs. Gable, greeted us at the door with a warm smile. "Good morning, Morrisons! Don't forget, parents, Family Day is next Friday! The children have a little take-home art project to complete this week."

"An art project?" I asked, shaking off my umbrella.

"Yes!" Mrs. Gable handed me a thick piece of poster board. "It's simple. They just need to draw or collage a picture of their family and write a few sentences about what makes their home special."

"Fun!" I smiled, tucking the poster board into Grayson’s folder.

As we walked toward their cubbies, Grace pulled on the hem of my jacket. "Mommy?"

"Yes, princess?"

"Can we put our daddy in the project?" Grace asked, her wide blue eyes looking up at me with absolute innocence.

My entire body went rigid. The bustling noise of the hallway—kids laughing, lockers slamming, teachers chatting—instantly muted into a dull buzz.

Oliver immediately abandoned his lunchbox, his eyes lighting up. "Yeah! What does our daddy look like? Is he super tall? Is he a superhero?"

I stood frozen in the middle of the hallway. Grayson didn't ask a question. He just stood by his cubby, his dark eyes locked onto mine, listening with an intensity that made my heart ache.

I had never lied to them. When they were younger and asked why other kids had daddies at the park, I told them the truth in the simplest way a toddler could understand: Your daddy and I loved each other once, but we couldn't stay together. But you have a mommy who loves you enough for a thousand people.

They had accepted that answer for years. But they were five now. They were noticing the world.

"Does... does Daddy know about us?" Grace whispered softly, holding her hedgehog ponytails out of her face. "Does he know we're five?"

That question cut deeper than any blade.

Does he know? No. He thinks I was a lying, cheating woman who betrayed him for money. He has no idea his blood runs through the veins of three incredible children. He has no idea he has two sons and a daughter.

"Sweethearts..." I squeezed my hands into tight fists inside my jacket pockets, forcing my voice to remain soft and calm. "We'll... we'll talk all about the project when we get home tonight, okay? Mommy has to go to work, and you have circle time."

I leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss onto Grace's forehead, rubbing Oliver's messy hair, and gently hugging Grayson, who hugged me back just a little tighter than usual.

"I love you three more than all the stars in the sky," I whispered.

"Love you too, Mommy!" Oliver and Grace chirped in unison, running off toward the play rug. Grayson gave me one last serious nod before joining them.

I walked back out to my car in a daze. I sat in the driver's seat, closing the door against the cold morning air, and let my head rest against the steering wheel. The smile I had maintained for my children completely collapsed.

For five years, I had kept Graham Morrison locked away in a dark corner of my memory. I had forced myself not to look at business magazines, not to search his name online, and not to wonder if he had ever discovered the truth about who framed me.

I remembered his laughter during our honeymoon in Italy. I remembered him promising, beneath a canopy of stars, that he would protect me forever. And then I remembered the cold, dead hatred in his eyes as he threw forged photographs at my feet and ordered his lawyers to end our marriage.

I had kept the pregnancy a secret because I was terrified. I was a broke, disgraced woman facing a powerful billionaire who didn't trust me. If I had told him, he would have accused me of lying, or he would have used his army of lawyers to rip my babies out of my arms. Hiding them had been an act of survival.

But am I keeping the secret for them now? Or am I keeping it because I'm still afraid?

My phone chimed, breaking the heavy silence. The screen displayed Chloe’s caller ID—my former college roommate and now my closest confidante in Savannah.

I answered, pulling the phone to my ear. "Hey, Chloe."

"Opal? What's wrong?" Chloe’s sharp intuition picked up on my tone instantly. "You sound like you just saw a ghost."

"The kids have a Family Day project," I said, my voice cracking slightly as I stared at the rain slicking the windshield. "Grace asked if they could put their father in the drawing. She asked if he knows about them."

Chloe let out a long, heavy sigh over the line. "Oh, honey... It was bound to happen eventually. They're growing up."

"I don't know what to do, Chloe," I admitted, a tear finally slipping down my cheek. "For five years, I told myself I was protecting them from a man who destroyed my life. But looking at Grayson... he has his father's eyes. He has his quiet, brooding nature. Am I a terrible person for keeping them apart?"

"Listen to me, Opal Bennett," Chloe’s voice turned fierce and protective. "Graham Morrison threw you out like trash without giving you a single chance to defend yourself. He believed a stack of fake photos over the woman he swore to love. You raised those three children on your own sweat, tears, and late nights. Don't you dare let guilt convince you that you owe that man anything."

"I know... I know," I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, taking a deep breath. "You're right. I just... I need to get through this work pitch. I can't break down today."

"Focus on your pitch. Knock their socks off. We'll grab a glass of wine tonight and figure out how to handle the school project."

"Thanks, Chloe. I'll see you later."

I hung up the phone, started the engine, and pulled out of the school parking lot. I threw myself into my work, using the demands of Haven Design Studio to numb the emotional storm brewing inside me, blissfully unaware that the world I had so carefully built was already beginning to shift.

That evening, the house was unusually quiet.

I had finished making a simple dinner of chicken tenders and roasted vegetables. The rain had returned, tapping a gentle, rhythmic pattern against the kitchen windows.

I walked into the dining room to call the kids for dinner, but stopped in the doorway.

All three of them were sitting together at the large wooden dining table. The poster board from Mrs. Gable was laid out in the center, surrounded by a chaotic mess of washable markers, crayons, and safety scissors.

They weren't fighting. They weren't yelling. They were working together in absolute, focused concentration.

"Hey, little artists," I said softly, stepping closer to the table. "Dinner's ready. How's the project going?"

"We're almost done, Mommy!" Oliver announced pridefully, holding up a green crayon. "I drew the sun and a massive dog!"

"We don't have a dog, Oliver," Grace giggled, setting down a pink marker. "But I drew our family!"

I walked around the table and looked down at the poster board.

In the center of the paper was a drawing of me. My stick-figure self had wildly long brown hair and a bright blue dress. Arrayed right beside me were three smaller stick figures labeled Grayson, Oliver, and Grace in crooked, preschool handwriting.

But my heart instantly stopped when my eyes drifted to the right side of the poster.

Standing on the opposite side of the children, completely separated from my figure, was another drawing. It was a tall figure drawn in black crayon, wearing a sharp black rectangle that looked strikingly like a suit.

The figure had hands, legs, and dark hair.

But its head was an empty, blank circle. There were no eyes, no nose, and no mouth.

I stared at the faceless man on the paper, my blood running cold as the breath was completely stolen from my lungs.

"Who's... who's that?" I asked, my voice trembling so softly it was barely audible.

Grace looked up at me with her bright, innocent blue eyes, smiling proudly at her artwork.

"That's Daddy," Grace said cheerfully. "We didn't know what color his eyes are, or what his mouth looks like when he smiles, so I left it blank until you can tell us."

A suffocating silence descended over the dining room. Oliver stopped playing with his crayon. Grace looked at me, waiting for an answer.

And then, Grayson slowly set his black marker down on the wood. He stood up from his chair, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the room feel ice-cold.

"Mommy..." Grayson asked, his quiet voice cutting through the silence like a sharp blade. "What’s our daddy’s name?"