I couldn’t cry. The betrayal felt too large, like my mind had shut itself down. Then my father said the words that made everything worse.
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“The little boy isn’t his only child.”
The silence stretched.
“What did you say?”
“There are two children.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
But my father did not take it back, because it was true. Eric had not simply had an affair. He had built another life. Another home. Another family. While I went to appointments alone, decorated a nursery alone, and believed we were building our future.
Hours later, Eric appeared again at the hospital, escorted upstairs by security after spending the morning calling everyone. When he entered, he saw the photograph beside my bed, and the color drained from his face.
That reaction told me everything.
“Claire—”
“Who is she?”
He froze.
“Who?”
I picked up the photograph.
“Don’t insult me.”
His eyes shifted toward my father. Wrong choice. My father stood slowly, calm in a way that felt dangerous.
“You have one chance to tell the truth.”
Eric swallowed.
“It’s complicated.”
I laughed, though nothing was funny. Years of lies, years of betrayal, and that was all he could say.
“Is he your son?”
Eric said nothing.
“Answer me.”
Finally, his shoulders dropped, and he nodded.
The room went still. Something inside me cracked quietly. Every excuse, every second chance, every promise disappeared.
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