IV. The Letter
I tore open the envelope right there in the lobby, my hands unsteady, Micah and Josiah watching me with wide, hopeful eyes.
Julian,
If you’re reading this, it means I finally found the courage to send our sons to find you, the way I should have found the courage to come to you myself, years ago.
I didn’t leave you for anyone else. Your mother came to see me the week after your birthday, nine years ago. She told me you’d decided you didn’t want children after all — that you’d changed your mind about starting a family, and that you were too much of a coward to tell me yourself, so she was doing it for you. She told me if I really loved you, I’d let you go quietly, without making a scene, without embarrassing the family. I believed her, because why would a mother lie about her own son like that?
I left three days later. I didn’t answer your calls because I thought I already knew what you’d say. I found out four months after I left that I was still carrying two of our frozen embryos in storage, embryos we’d made together before my cancer treatment, and the clinic needed a decision about what to do with them. I couldn’t let them go. I transferred them myself, alone, seven years and nine months ago now, without telling you, because I believed — truly believed — that you didn’t want this. I told myself I was giving our children life either way, whether or not you ever knew.
I’ve followed your accident, and your recovery, and everything since, from a distance, through the news, the way anyone in Meridian Heights could. I told the boys stories about their father’s scar and his birthmark because I wanted them to know you, even from far away, even if they never got to meet you.
My cancer came back four months ago, Julian. It’s more aggressive this time. I don’t know how much time I have, and I couldn’t let another year pass letting a lie your mother told nine years ago keep my sons from their father. They deserve to know you. Whatever time I have left, please, be there for them.
— Camille
V. The Voice from the Revolving Doors
I read the last line twice, my chest caving in, and that’s when a voice echoed across the marble lobby from behind me.
“Julian.”
I turned. Camille stood just inside the revolving doors, thinner than I remembered, a scarf wrapped around hair that had clearly grown back from a more recent chemo round, her eyes red-rimmed but steady.
“I told myself I’d just send the letter and wait outside,” she said. “But I couldn’t let them walk in here without me.”
I don’t remember crossing the lobby. I only remember reaching her, and both of us standing there, nine years of stolen time collapsing into a single moment, while our sons watched from beside the reception desk, hand in hand.
