“August 27th, in the master bedroom of your penthouse apartment in Athens. Though I can’t tell you whether I conceived while I was on top, or when you had my legs folded so far back that my feet were touching the headboard.”
The words registered slowly, my brain struggling to reconcile her statement with what I’d been told by my son.
August 27th. The gala. Our last night together.
My mouth went dry. “That means I’m—”
“Go on.” She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. “You’ll get there, eventually.”
“—the father,” I finished, the words emerging hoarse.
Her lips curved into a triumphant smile. “Bingo. You’re going to be a father again.”
This revelation provided no comfort. I retreated until I encountered the bed and sat down heavily.
“But pregnancy, it was impossible. You underwent the procedure to prevent conception,” I reminded her, grasping for a rational explanation.
Had she deceived me?
“I had a tubal ligation,” she confirmed. “But the doctor explained they can reverse themselves without medical assistance. Apparently, it happens in about one percent ofcases.” She gave me a pointed look. “Congratulations. We beat the odds.”
I stared at her, trying to organize my thoughts into some semblance of coherence.
“I’ll give you a moment,” she said, stepping out of her shoes. “This dress is making me hot.”
To my astonishment, she began removing her dress as though I weren’t present. The zipper descended slowly, revealing the elegant line of her spine and her bra.
I should have looked away. I didn’t look away.
When she stepped out of the gown, I was confronted with the full reality of her transformation. The body I knew as intimately as my own had become foreign territory.
And her belly—
Christós.
The curve was impossible to ignore, stretching her skin taut. A dark vertical line bisected her abdomen from navel downward.
I cataloged every change. The way her skin glowed. The fullness of her hips. The heaviness of her breasts that would soon feed our child.
She was lush, ripe, unmistakably fertile. And I wanted her with an intensity that bordered on feral.
“I’m aware I’m not exactly how you remember me.”
“You are wrong.” I forced myself to look away. “You should sit. You have been on your feet for hours, yes?”
“I’m pregnant, not an invalid.”
But she sat anyway, and I was grateful. Because if she’d remained standing there, half-naked with the evidence of what we’d created, I might fall to my knees and beg to kiss between her legs.
“When did you find out?” I asked, hearing the accusation in my voice.
“Mid October. I started throwing up in the mornings and being more exhausted than usual. I went to my doctor, and the blood work revealed I was pregnant. I didn’t believe until they did an ultrasound to confirm.”
“You said nothing?”
“I was waiting to tell you in person.” By now she had changed into pajamas. “I didn’t want to have this conversation over the phone. I didn’t want you to find out from a text message or a voicemail. I thought—” Her voice wavered. “I thought you and our children deserved better than that.”
“Naturally, Chrysanthos and Tia, they should be told in appropriate manner.”
