The Twins Were Never Mine

The photo showed a woman lowering her head as she helped a boy put on his shoes.

On her wrist was a Patek Philippe Celestial—something I had won at an auction in Northbell the year before and given her as our anniversary gift.

It was a limited edition. On the back of the dial, her initials were engraved. AL.

At the nape of her neck, just barely visible, was a tiny red mole. Most people would not have noticed it, but I had kissed that spot countless times. There was no way I could mistake it.

I stared at the screen, my right hand unconsciously tightening around the medical report. It confirmed that my infertility had finally been cured.

So Astrid Lawson's so-called business trip had only been because her pregnancy was too far along to hide, and she had gone to stay with another man to carry the baby to term.

No wonder she had told me not long ago that it did not matter if my condition could not be cured—that as long as we were together, it was enough. It was because she had already been carrying someone else's child.

Back when we were studying in Millhaven High, we had been the golden couple everyone talked about, constantly trading first and second place in our grade.

Back then, even in her faded school uniform, Astrid always stood tall and straight. She had been proud, stubborn, her eyes shining with a refusal to lose.

In our second year, her father had been diagnosed with uremia, and her family had nearly sold everything they owned. She had been on the verge of dropping out.

I had begged my father to step in, taking on her father's medical expenses and all of her tuition under the name of the Simmons Inc. scholarship fund. I had been careful—painfully careful—to protect her fragile sense of pride.

Later, we were accepted into the same top university. Naturally, we fell in love. After graduation, despite my parents' objections over our mismatched backgrounds, I still went through with the marriage. I brought a generous dowry and married into her life without hesitation.

I had believed our love was a fairy tale that crossed class boundaries. And because of that, I extended that love to others, setting up a scholarship program after we married. And Jasper Henderson was the first boy I sponsored.

His original name had been Rusty Henderson. When he first came out of the mountains, he was thin, sun-darkened, timid, and spoke with a thick accent.

He stood in front of me with reddened eyes, uneasy and ashamed. "Calvin… everyone laughs at my name. I don't want to be called Rusty anymore. I want to start over."

I had softened.

I spent three full days poring over baby-name books and classics before finally naming him Jasper—a gemstone, plain when pulled from the earth, but brilliant once polished.

I wanted him to wash away the mud of the mountains and shine in this city. To have the bright future he deserved. But I never expected that the stone I spent years polishing would be the one that shattered my home.