Chapter 6 - The Unspoken TruthI didn't answer him right away.
I stood up from the table, walked out of the dining room, and climbed the grand staircase to the second floor. The house felt entirely different today than it had twenty-four hours ago. The silence wasn't peaceful anymore; it was heavy with expectation.
I pushed open the door to the guest suite next to our bedroom—the room we had originally painted soft yellow and pastel green three years ago, before the miscarriage shattered our world. The crib still sat in the corner, draped in a dust cover. A rocking chair rested beside the window, untouched and empty.
Slowly, I walked down the hall and opened our master bedroom door.
Mrs. Gable was standing by the bed, softly humming a lullaby as she rocked baby Leo in her arms. The infant was awake now, his big, dark eyes blinking sleepily up at the ceiling, his tiny fists curled tightly against his chest.
When Mrs. Gable saw me standing in the doorway, she offered a gentle, sympathetic smile and carefully stepped forward.
“He’s a good baby, Mrs. Whitaker,” she whispered softly. “barely makes a sound. Just like Mr. Eric was, I imagine, when he was small.”
Without thinking, I reached out.
Mrs. Gable expertly shifted the baby into my arms.
My breath hitched. The baby felt impossibly light—fragile as spun glass, radiating a warm, sweet scent of baby powder and milk. As I cradled him against my chest, little Leo let out a soft yawn, his tiny hand reaching out instinctively to wrap his microscopic fingers around my pinky finger.
I felt a sudden, violent jolt in my chest.
It wasn't the bitter resentment I had felt the night before. It wasn't the cold anger of a betrayed wife.
It was a sharp, overwhelming ache.
This innocent little boy had done nothing wrong. He hadn't asked to be born into addiction, hadn't asked to lose his mother, hadn't asked to be dropped into the middle of a fractured marriage between two strangers who used to be in love. He was just a child, desperately needing a safe harbor in a world that had already tried to chew him up.
Just like Eric had needed one, thirty years ago in Ohio.
“Claire?”
I turned my head. Eric was standing in the doorway, his hands trembling as he gripped the doorframe, watching me hold his nephew with a look of terrified hope.
“I was angry at you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, keeping my eyes locked on the baby’s face. “Not because you saved him. But because you shut me out. You thought I was too broken by our own grief to help you save someone else.”
Eric stepped into the room, closing the distance between us until he was standing right beside me. A single tear tracked down his weathered cheek.
“I was scared,” Eric confessed, his voice breaking. “I was scared that if I told you about Maya, about my past, about this messy, ugly family... you would realize how broken I really am, and you’d leave.”
I looked up from the baby, locking my gaze onto my husband’s eyes.
“We are both broken, Eric,” I said softly. “And pretending we aren't is what nearly destroyed us this past year.”
May you like
I shifted the baby slightly, resting him against Eric’s chest, letting my husband wrap his strong arms around both of us.
“Call Arthur,” I whispered against Eric’s shoulder. “Tell him we’re keeping him. Tell him we’re filing for full adoption.”
