And then, the final nail in the coffin was hammered in. Robert, hearing the violence, rushed out of his apartment. Seeing Michael advancing on Khloe, the elderly man threw himself between them, shielding the mother and child.
In front of a dozen wide-eyed neighbors, Robert confessed. He wept, admitting to a sickening, grief-fueled affair with his dead son’s wife.
Michael didn’t hit him. He didn’t scream anymore. Pam said he simply collapsed to his knees on the carpet, clutching his hair, letting out a sound of agony so hollow and broken it made the onlookers sick to their stomachs.
The next day, my phone rang.
I was standing in my office, looking at the architectural blueprints for the new resort. I saw Michael’s name. I let it ring until the final second before answering.
“Sarah.” His voice was a raspy, devastated croak.
“Yes, Michael.”
“I… I know everything. The test… the fertility clinic…” He choked on a sob, sounding like a small, terrified child. “She played me. They both played me. It’s Robert’s. It’s his.”
I maintained my icy composure. “I am aware.”
“I am so sorry.” The desperation in his voice was palpable, a drowning man reaching for a raft he had previously set on fire. “I was a blind, arrogant fool.
You took the blame for me all those years. You protected me, and I threw you away for a lie. Sarah, please… I’ll leave her. I’m evicting them today.
My mother is beside herself; she wants to beg for your forgiveness. Please, come back to Chicago. I don’t need a kid. I just need my wife.”
