“Of course.”
She stepped away.
I turned around.
Daniel stood about four feet from me.
Vanessa was not beside him.
For the first time that day, he looked uncertain.
Not angry.
Not arrogant.
Uncertain.
His eyes moved past me to where Eli and Owen were speaking with their teacher.
“They’re mine.”
It was not a question.
I held his gaze.
“They’re themselves.”
His jaw shifted.
“Claire.”
“You want me to confirm biology?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said.
“They are your biological sons.”
He closed his eyes for half a second.
“How?”
The absurdity of the question almost made me laugh.
Instead, I said, “You know how twins happen, Daniel.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
His face hardened slightly, embarrassment becoming defensiveness.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
That did make me laugh.
Quietly.
Not because it was funny.
Because after thirteen years, that question was so astonishingly convenient that anger couldn’t even reach it.
“I told you.”
He stared at me.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, Daniel.
I did.”
“I would remember something like that.”
“Would you?”
His expression changed.
I reached into my plastic folder.
The photograph was there.
So were the competition documents.
And beneath them, folded in a clear protective sleeve, was something I had not intended to show anyone that day.
An old certified-mail receipt.
I had kept it for legal reasons.
Then because throwing it away felt like erasing proof that I had tried.
I held it up.
