Ethan sat at the desk, face illuminated by his laptop screen. Papers were scattered across the surface. Takeout containers. His phone charging beside him.
And on the screen—multiple email windows, payment platforms, and a photo of a boy. About twelve years old. Brown hair. Familiar chin.
“Ethan?” I whispered.
He spun around, startled.
“What are you doing up?” he asked, voice cracking.
“I should be asking you that.”
He tried to recover. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
He exhaled heavily and slowly turned the laptop toward me.
The boy’s photo filled the screen.
“Who is he?”
Ethan swallowed. “He’s my son.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“I didn’t know about him,” he rushed to explain. “Before we met, I dated someone briefly. Laura. We broke up. I moved away. I never heard from her again.”
“And?”
“A few months ago, she found me online. She’s sick. Autoimmune disease. She can’t work full-time anymore. She told me about Caleb.”
“Caleb,” I repeated.
“We did a paternity test,” he said quickly. “It’s real. He’s mine.”
I stared at him.
“So the snoring?”
He looked ashamed. “I didn’t know how to tell you. After everything you’ve been through—the miscarriages, the treatments—I couldn’t just drop this on you.”
“So you decided to lie?”
“I thought if I handled it quietly, it wouldn’t hurt you. I’ve been taking freelance work at night. Writing, editing. Sending money for his school, her medical bills.”
Every single night. Behind a locked door.
“You should have trusted me,” I said quietly. “You should have told me.”
He stepped closer. “I was afraid of losing you.”
“You almost did.”
He wiped at his eyes. “I don’t want secrets anymore.”
I looked at the email threads. They weren’t romantic. They were practical. Expenses. Logistics. A child asking about braces.
“What are you planning?” I asked.
“She wants Caleb to meet me. He’s been asking about his dad.”
“And you want to?”
He nodded.
I took a long breath. “Then we’ll meet him. Together.”
