Cecily
I know something is wrong the moment he walks into the sunroom and sits on the couch across from me.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even fidget.
Ethan has that look—the one that always makes my heart sink. It’s the same look he wore when he fell off his bike as a little boy, or when some classmate’s words cut deeper than they should have.
But this isn’t that. This is the kind of hurt that makes a mother feel helpless before she even knows why
He sits there for a long moment, shoulders drawn tight, like he’s searching for the right way to begin.
“Mom,” he says, eyes fixed on his hands, “I… heard you and Grandpa talking that last day in Stone Ridge. Behind the cabin.”
My breath catches before he even says the rest. I know exactly which conversation he means—and yet, I cling to the hope that maybe he didn’t hear enough.
That maybe the wind, or the crackle of the fire, or mercy itself had drowned out the worst of it.
But then his voice breaks through the silence again.
“He was talking about you… about you thinking better of the divorce,” he says quietly. “You said you’d had that conversation before and hadn’t changed your mind.”
He swallows hard, his voice barely steady.
“Then you said… Da—he… the woman he was with… she’s pregnant. It’s his, isn’t it? He’s going to have another child.”
Suddenly, the room feels too small. The air simply vanishes.
“I wish you hadn’t heard that,” I whisper, my throat tight. “I wish I could take that moment back.”
Because after everything that happened almost a month ago, he should never have had to know that such a possibility even existed. That another child, another betrayal, had almost become our reality.
Colin waits until Alicia disappears upstairs.
Then he turns toward me, cautious, like he’s walking on broken glass.
“Cecily,” he says, “can we talk for a minute? Maybe in my—” He catches himself. “In the office?”
I should say no. The last thing I want is to hear anything else that might break me.
But I nod anyway.
I walk ahead and stop at the office door. I haven’t set foot in this room once since he destroyed what was left of us.
I steady myself, inhale slowly, and push the door open.
Colin follows, closing it behind him.
I stay near the doorway—close enough to leave if I have to—while he moves to the center of the room.
He stands there, eyes flicking toward me and away again.
“Maya… lost the baby yesterday,” he says at last.
For a moment, I can’t think. I just stare at him. Then it sinks in.
I feel the relief first, sharp and too much to handle all at once. But then the shame follows, turning my stomach before I can even catch my breath.
“I hate that my first reaction is relief,” I whisper, forcing the admission out. “Almost… satisfaction. It makes me feel sick.”
