Jamie
The safe in Dad’s bedroom shouldn’t have opened on the first try. But he’d always used Mom’s birthday for passwords and combinations. Why would death change old habits?
I wasn’t prepared for what I found inside.
His will left everything to me, with clear provisions for Hunter. I cried seeing notes about Hunter’s education fund, monthly contributions made since his birth. Monthly. For nine years, while I’d convinced myself he didn’t care, while I’d nursed my anger and righteousness, he’d been quietly saving for my son’s future.
The betrayal was mine, not his.
My tears continued when I found my parents’ marriage certificate. Its edges were yellowed, careful folds showing it had been handled often. Trina’s birth record was there. Mine too, tucked beneath theirs like we were still his little girls.
When I understood the business license folded in his will, I dissolved.
So much crying. I’d spent half my time here in tears—more in the past few days than the past ten years. My face felt raw, eyes swollen nearly shut.
And I probably wasn’t done.
Tucked in the back of that tiny safe was a sealed letter. My name scrawled across the envelope in Dad’s messy handwriting. Opening it seemed impossible. Paralyzing. I set it aside, knowing I needed more strength to deal with whatever feelings his words would evoke.
That’s when Eric walked in.
I hadn’t heard his footsteps or seen his shadow, too lost in my flooding eyes and jagged breathing. But I knew he was there. The air itself changed, warm serenity sweeping over me like a physical blanket. His presence alone could shield me from pain and sorrow, some invisible force field that made the unbearable suddenly manageable.
We didn’t need words. Never had.
Our connection felt otherworldly, like we’d been magnetized and drawn together by forces beyond understanding. I’d felt it from the beginning but hadn’t recognized it until that moment.
Ever since Eric entered the hospital cafeteria, I’d been spellbound.
That was the moment my soul said, You! Yes, you’re the one!
When he sat with me through my father’s death, caring for me as I fell apart, my soul spoke again. When he continued comforting me, despite his own troubles, despite being sleep deprived and weary, my heart took notice. When he wiped my tears and looked at me with understanding no other man had ever possessed, that’s when my heart and soul finally connected.
Yes. He’s the one.
Lying with my head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, I’d felt peace for the first time in years. Despite the whirlwind of emotions, despite life-altering events crashing around us, I could see possibility emerging from the wreckage. Even knowing the worst could still be ahead—Caleb’s uncertain recovery, the chasm between our lives—I felt we could overcome it.
Together.
When I’d moved over him and he’d moved inside me, it felt like making those plans together. Our physical connection strengthened the emotional bond. No amount of grief could shadow my desire for him. He was comfort, a balm. The connection banished my remaining doubts.
Then, in our post-sex bliss, with me crying from the overwhelming beauty of it, he looked me in the eye and innocently shattered everything.
The connection, the wordless communication, the alignment of our souls. All broken.
Had I imagined it all? Maybe in my grief, I’d grasped on to something that never existed.
Eric was Caleb’s donor. And it made no sense.
Not the medical procedure. That part was clear. It was his decision to hide it from me that I couldn’t figure out. The careful omission. The deliberate withholding.
God, I was angry. It burned through me like wildfire. Unfathomable and un-fucking-stoppable.
“So you’re having surgery tomorrow…doctors are going to stick needles in you and take your bone marrow?”
“It’s not really surgery. It’s an easy procedure on my end.”
“Easy?”
