Now I was thirty minutes outside Willowbrook, driving to Millfield to meet a ghost from my past.
The photos from last night were still on my phone. Three images that had arrived just as we’d sat down at the Rosewood Inn, sent from a number I didn’t recognize with a message that had made my blood run cold:Sam, we need to talk. This is Leo, your son. Call me asap, Jenna.
Even now, sitting in my truck outside the diner where I’d agreed to meet them, I could barely process what I was seeing. A little boy with my eyes – not just the color, but the shape, the way they crinkled slightly at the corners when he was curious about something. And that cowlick. The stubborn piece of hairthat stuck up at the back of his head, the same damn cowlick that had driven my mother crazy when I was his age.
The math was simple, devastating. Almost five years since that summer in Chicago when I’d kissed Jenna goodbye. Leo was four years old. The timing lined up perfectly – or perfectly catastrophic, depending on how you looked at it.
I’d spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, listening to Chloe’s breathing that was just a little too controlled to be natural sleep. She’d gone straight upstairs when we got home, claiming a headache, and had been “asleep” by the time I’d finally come to bed an hour later. But I knew she was awake. I could feel the tension radiating from her still form, guilt crashing over me in waves.
I’d ruined her birthday. The evening was supposed to have been perfect – candlelit dinner, good wine, the proposal I’d been planning for weeks. She’d been so radiant when she’d come downstairs in that green dress that my first instinct had been to suggest we skip dinner entirely – cancel the reservation, strip her out of that dress, and spend the evening showing her exactly how beautiful I thought she was. On any other night, I would have. But the engagement ring had been in my jacket pocket, and I’d wanted everything to be perfect: the romantic dinner, the proposal, then coming home to celebrate our engagement properly.
Instead, I’d spent half the night dealing with crisis management, watching the woman I loved try to pretend she wasn’t disappointed that her birthday had turned into a disaster because I’d tuned out. When those text messages came through – urgent, insistent, demanding decisions – I’d made the phone calls from the garden. First callingherback to find out what the hell was going on, then calling Jack in a panic – mostly to make sure Harper didn’t text Chloe later asking about the proposal.
The engagement ring was back in my sock drawer now. The speech I’d practiced was still memorized. All the pieces had been in place. Then my past showed up in the form of three photographs, and everything changed.
But what choice did I have? When those photos came through, when I saw those eyes that were unmistakably mine, my brain just… short-circuited. I couldn’t think straight. All I could think was: one meeting. Just one meeting to see if this is real, to talk to Jenna, to understand what the hell is happening. Then I’d tell Chloe everything.
Except now I was lying to her. Actually lying.
God, I should have just shown her those text messages last night. Should have said, “Chloe, something insane just happened, help me figure this out.” That’s what couples do, right? Face things together? But I’d been seconds away from proposing, the ring was in my pocket, and my brain couldn’t process fast enough. So I’d panicked.
It’s not like I cheated on Chloe. Leo was born before I even met her. We’re both adults with pasts – neither of us was a virgin when we met, and we’d never pretended otherwise. A surprise child from before we were together shouldn’t be a relationship-ending revelation. But somehow, by lying about it, by hiding it, I’d turned something that should have been manageable into a betrayal.
Around 2:47 AM, I’d finally drifted off to sleep. This morning, I’d gotten up early, made coffee, and sat at the kitchen table trying to convince myself this was all some kind of mistake.
I’d made two cups of coffee by habit – one for me, one for Chloe, with exactly the amount of sugar she liked. Usually, she’d pad into the kitchen in one of my old t-shirts, her hair a mess of blonde waves, and steal the first sip from my cup. Then she’d lean against the counter and tell me about her schedule for the day, which would undoubtedly be disrupted by an emergency.
But this morning, there was no sound from upstairs. No shower running, no footsteps, no sign that she was ready to face me or the day.
I should have gone back upstairs, woken her up, shown her the photos, told her everything. That’s what I should have done. Instead, I left that note on the counter next to her untouched coffee mug and headed to Millfield.
Through the diner’s window, I could see them at a corner booth – Jenna looking polished and put-together in a way that seemed at odds with her desperate messages, and the little boy who was more than likely my son coloring on a placemat with the kind of focused concentration I recognized in myself.
My son.
The words felt foreign, impossible. Yesterday I’d been planning to propose to the woman I loved. Today I’m meeting my son for the first time.
I took a deep breath and got out of the truck.
The bell above the diner door chimed as I entered, and Jenna looked up immediately. The little boy glanced up, too, and seeing those familiar brown eyes up close made my stomach drop.
“Sam.” Jenna’s voice was exactly as I remembered, but strained. “Thank you for coming.”
I slid into the booth across from them, hyperaware of how small this place was, how easily word could travel back to Willowbrook if anyone I knew happened to stop by. But Millfield was far enough away that I should be safe from curious eyes.
“This is Leo,” Jenna said softly, her hand resting protectively on the boy’s shoulder. “Leo, this is Sam. He’s… he’s an old friend of Mommy’s.”
Leo looked up from his coloring, studying my face with that same careful attention I’d used as a kid, taking in every detail before deciding if a place – or person – was safe.
“Hi,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the slight rasp that I’d been told I had as a child. “I’m coloring a truck.”
He held up his placemat, and I saw a fire truck rendered in red crayon with the kind of meticulous attention to detail that made my chest tight. Every line was carefully within the boundaries, each detail precisely placed. I’d been that kid too – the one who always colored within the lines, who got frustrated when other kids scribbled carelessly. Even his artistic approach reminded me of myself at that age.
“That’s a really good truck,” I managed. “You’re very talented.”
Leo beamed at the compliment, and that smile – slightly crooked, higher on the right side – was like looking in a mirror.
“Tell me,” I said to Jenna, though I was pretty sure I already knew the story from her desperate text messages the night before.
