The results arrived on a Tuesday morning.
I was making breakfast when my phone rang.
“Rachel.”
Nathan.
His voice sounded different.
Older.
Broken.
“What?”
“It’s positive.”
I closed my eyes.
“I know.”
“No.”
He took a breath.
“It’s not just positive.”
I said nothing.
“The probability is 99.9999998%.”
I looked at the window.
Outside, Ethan was riding his bicycle down the sidewalk.
Nine years old.
Blue-gray eyes.
Nathan’s eyes.
“Congratulations,” I said quietly.
There was a long silence.
Then:
“Can I see him?”
I closed my eyes again.
“You’ve seen him.”
“I mean privately.”
“No.”
“Rachel, please.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
I almost did.
But before I could answer, Ethan came running through the door.
“Mom!”
I ended the call.
“What?”
“I got an email!”
He shoved his tablet toward me.
The Chicago Young Innovators Competition had nominated his project for a national science program.
His eyes were shining.
I smiled.
“That is amazing.”
“There’s a summer program.”
“Okay.”
“And they want me to attend.”
“We’ll see.”
“Mom!”
I laughed.
“Fine.
We’ll look at it.”
He threw his arms around me.
I hugged him tightly.
And for one brief moment, Nathan disappeared from my mind.
But only for one moment.
Because that evening, someone knocked on our door.
It was Nathan.
I didn’t invite him inside.
He stood on the porch holding a cardboard box.
“What is that?”
“Things.”
“What things?”
He looked embarrassed.
“Mine.”
I stared at him.
He opened the box.
Inside were old photographs.
A baseball glove.
A stuffed bear.
A stack of letters.
A small silver watch.
“I’ve been going through my storage.”
I didn’t understand.
“I found these.”
He pulled out a photograph.
It was from our second year of marriage.
We were standing in front of Lake Michigan.
I was laughing.
He had his arm around me.
We looked happy.
Because we were.
Once.
He looked at the photograph.
“I forgot how happy we were.”
I didn’t answer.
“I don’t remember why I was so desperate to destroy it.”
I looked away.
“People make bad decisions.”
“I made the worst decision of my life.”
“Maybe.”
He looked at me.
“Can I come in?”
I hesitated.
Then opened the door.
Nathan walked into the house.
He looked around.
Photographs of Ethan covered the walls.
First birthday.
First day of kindergarten.
Soccer.
Science fair.
Christmas.
Halloween.
Ethan everywhere.
Nathan stopped in front of one.
Ethan was six, wearing oversized safety goggles and holding a screwdriver.
“He looks like me.”
“Yes.”
“Does he know?”
“Know what?”
“That I’m his father.”
“No.”
Nathan stared at me.
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted him to know when he was old enough to understand.”
“You mean when he was old enough to decide whether he wants me?”
I looked at him.
“That too.”
Nathan nodded slowly.
He placed the photograph down.
“Does he ask about me?”
“No.”
“Does he ask who his father is?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“What truth?”
“That his father wasn’t ready to be a father.”
Nathan flinched.
I continued.
“I never told him you didn’t know.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want him to build his identity around your absence.”
Nathan’s eyes filled with tears.
“That isn’t fair.”
“No.”
“It makes me sound like I abandoned him.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t know.”
“But you abandoned me.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
That was the first time Nathan had admitted it.
No excuses.
No blame.
Just two words.
I know.
We sat in silence.
Then he asked:
“Did you ever hate me?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Three years.”
“And after that?”
“I got tired.”
“Tired of hating me?”
“Tired of carrying you around in my head.”
Nathan nodded.
“Claire and I didn’t work out.”
I said nothing.
“We never got married.”
I looked at him.
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because for ten years, you thought I left you for her.”
“You did.”
“No.”
I frowned.
“I left because I was weak.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No.”
He rubbed his face.
“But Claire wasn’t the reason.”
“Then what was?”
Nathan looked at me.
“I was terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Becoming like my father.”
I didn’t understand.
His father had been a wealthy businessman.
Cold.
Demanding.
Absent.
Nathan had always talked about him with a strange mixture of anger and admiration.
“My father had a second family,” Nathan said.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“He had another woman.”
I sat very still.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Almost nobody did.”
“What happened?”
“When I was twenty-nine, I found out.”
He laughed bitterly.
“I spent years hating him.
Then I realized I was becoming him.”
“You weren’t.”
“I was.”
He looked at the floor.
