"Yes," I say firmly, "I do. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life, Emma. A lot of decisions I regret. But walking away from my responsibilities isn't one of them. And this—" Igesture between us, "—you and this baby—you're not a mistake. Whatever happened in Florence, however complicated this is, I don't regret it."
Fresh tears well up in her eyes, and she looks away, blinking rapidly. "There’s something else I have to tell you. It's not just one." Her voice drops to barely a whisper. "The doctor said... it's twins."
The word hangs in the air between us.
"Twins," I repeat, because surely I misheard. Surely she didn't just say?—
"Two babies." Emma's watching me now, her eyes wide and bright with unshed tears. "Due in January."
Two babies.
Two children who will need everything—stability, security, love, guidance. Two more chances to fail as a father the way I've failed Samantha.
Or two chances to finally get it right.
Looking at Emma's face—at the sheer terror mixed with something that looks like desperate hope—I realize I have a choice to make.
I can panic. Can retreat into the same patterns that destroyed my marriage, the same emotional distance that pushed my daughter away.
Or I can show up. Really show up, in all the messy, complicated ways this situation demands.
I reach across the table again, and this time when I take Emma's hand, my grip is steady. Sure.
"Okay," I say with as much confidence as I can muster up. "Twins. We're having twins."
Chapter 8
Emma
Grant's jaw tenses. He rubs his hand across it, and I can hear the scratch of five o'clock shadow against his palm. Then he nods. Once. Twice. Like he's trying to convince himself this is manageable.
"Okay," he says again. "So, that changes some things."
Some things. The understatement would be funny if I wasn't so freaked out.
Then, I actually see it with my own eyes—the moment he slides from shocked into problem-solving mode. His shoulders straighten. His eyes sharpen. He leans forward slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice has that calm, smooth quality that probably serves him well in boardrooms.
"You'll need a high-risk OB," he says. "Twin pregnancies have more complications. Do you have one lined up? Because I know several excellent practices that specialize in?—"
"Grant—"
"And you'll need to think about your living situation. Your apartment is—how big is your place? Because you'll need space for two cribs, and?—"
"Grant, stop."
He does, but I can see his mind still racing. Already cataloging problems, finding solutions. Already taking over.
Shit, I knew this was going to happen.
"I don't need you to fix this," I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I intend. "Like I said earlier, I can handle it."
His eyes meet mine, and there's something gentle in them that makes my throat tight. "I know you can. But I want to be here for you."
"I'm not asking for your help."
"Emma—"
"I told you because you have a right to know. Because they're yours, and it would be wrong to keep that from you." The words tumble out fast, defensive. "But I'm not—I don't need you to swoop in and start solving problems with your checkbook."
