I wrap my arms around myself and cry.
I cry for my mother.
I cry for my father, wherever he is.
I cry for the dream I thought was finally within reach—the cobblestone streets and fresh starts, the cafés and borrowed time.
It’s unraveling. All of it.
When I finally pull myself together, I reach for my phone.
I don’t hesitate.
I scroll to Spencer’s number, double-check every digit, and type:
I need to talk. Could you call me at this number? It’s important.
I hit send.
No reply.
Not right away. Not in five minutes. Not by the time I change into sweats and make tea. And not as I sit on the couch staring at the wall for an hour straight.
But maybe I’ve got the number wrong. Maybe it’s never even reached him.
I open my laptop and go straight to the Paper & Pixel Foundation website. There has to be some contact info. Email? LinkedIn?Something.
But when the site loads, there he is.
Spencer Devereaux.
In a navy polo and khakis, standing on a grassy lawn with his arm around a stunning woman.
She’s tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling down at a boy—maybe four years old—who’s holding a caterpillar in his outstretched palm.
The caption reads:
Founder Spencer Devereaux enjoys time with family at the annual appreciation picnic.
Family.
He has a family.
A wife.
A child.
Of course he does.
I don’t need to keep searching. I don’t need his email. I have all the information I need.
I close the laptop and sit in the silence.
I won’t be the other woman.
I won’t interrupt an unknowing family with the news of some secret lover’s child.
That’s what my dad did to us.
