I was at the office, pulling another late night developing a new product, when the notice arrived: I was dead.
I assumed it was someone's idea of a sick joke. But when I got home, I heard my son anxiously questioning my husband.
"Daddy, why did you get Mommy a death certificate? Did something happen to her?"
My husband ruffled his hair.
"Mommy's fine. It's just that Aunt Shelagh Simmons wants to stay at the Sunmont Villa during her pregnancy. That place belongs to your mommy, and she won't give it to her, so Daddy had no choice but to get a death certificate and inherit it."
"Once the deed is transferred to Aunt Shelagh's name, Daddy will cancel the certificate."
A ringing filled my skull. In a single heartbeat, the blood in my veins seemed to run backward.
The Sunmont Villa was what my mother left me. I'd never been able to bring myself to live there, terrified of erasing the last traces of her.
Something inside me shattered. I drew a slow breath and dialed a number.
"That offer you made before, to bring me onto your company's R&D team. I accept."
"But within three days, you'll give me a new identity and transfer every last one of my assets over to it."
……
I stood outside the door letting the cold wind cut into me for half an hour before the fire in my chest cooled even slightly.
I pushed the door open, and the smell of cooking rushed out to meet me.
Blake Sanchez stood in the kitchen in an apron, slicing vegetables with the easy precision of a trained chef.
But in every memory I had, Blake was a rich boy who'd never lifted a finger in his life.
Eight years of marriage, and I could count the times he'd cooked for me on one hand.
Then Shelagh came back from abroad, and suddenly he was brewing her brown sugar ginger tea every time she had her period.
Once she got pregnant, he even signed up for classes to learn how to cook proper meals for an expectant mother.
Whenever I asked him about it, all he'd say was,
"She's a stranger in this city. I'm her oldest friend. Of course I should look out for her."
"Be good, don't get jealous over nothing. It only makes you look petty."
He didn't even glance up when he saw me come in.
"You're back. Don't wait up for me tonight."
"Shelagh suddenly wanted chicken soup, so I made some and took it over. I'll be home late."
Before, I'd have turned a blind eye for our son's sake. But this time I couldn't stop myself from asking,
"Whose child is Shelagh really carrying?"
Three months had passed since her pregnancy was confirmed, and the baby's father had yet to show his face.
Blake went with her to every prenatal appointment, patiently played music to the baby, took charge of her food, her clothes, where she lived, all of it.
He'd never been that devoted to our own son.
I found it very hard to believe there was nothing between him and Shelagh.
Clang.
Blake slammed the spatula down hard against the stovetop and glared at me.
"What are you implying? That I'm sleeping with Shelagh?"
"Developing products all day isn't exhausting enough for you? You've still got energy left to dream up nonsense like this? If you've got the time, go upstairs and spend it with your son."
He was always even-tempered. The only reason he'd snap like that was because I'd hit the truth.
A sharp pain shot through my heart. I wanted to press him further, but it was as if all my strength had drained away, and I couldn't force out a single word.
Blake snatched the thermal container off the table, rammed his shoulder into mine, and walked off without looking back.
I pushed open the door to the children's room.
My son was sitting obediently on the bed, his favorite book of fairy tales in his hands.
When he saw it was me who'd come in, the hope in his eyes slowly drained away.
"Daddy broke his promise again. He said he'd read me a bedtime story tonight."
My heart ached as I pulled him into my arms and soothed him gently.
"Daddy has work to deal with tonight. Mommy will read it to you."
Even making excuses for Blake left me feeling like a fraud.
Ever since Shelagh got pregnant, he hadn't set foot in our son's room once. Every time, he turned down the only bit of time he had with his own child, claiming he was too busy with work.
But I knew. Every single night, he found some new way to read bedtime stories to the unformed baby in Shelagh's belly.
In my arms, my son suddenly looked up at me.
"Mommy, if Daddy lied to you, does that mean you won't want him anymore?"
I raised an eyebrow, knowing exactly what he was asking about.
Before I could answer, he threw his arms around me and clung tight, his voice almost pleading.
"Mommy, Francis Coleman will never lie to you. Francis will tell you everything."
"Daddy got you a death certificate. He wants to inherit what's yours so he can give the Sunmont Villa to Aunt Shelagh."
"He did it on impulse. Don't be angry with him. He still loves you."
I looked at his small face, twisted with grief too deep for tears, and the pain in my chest only sharpened.
Sometimes I wanted to ask Blake if he'd ever once stopped to consider how our son felt.
He was only six, at the very age when a child needs his parents most.
How could he bring himself to leave his own son out in the cold while pouring all that warmth into another woman and another man's child?
