My son.
No matter how many times I said the words to myself, I couldn’t get them to make sense.
I stalked toward her, and she stood, not shrinking back. My temper was new to her, but she’d never been afraid of me and she apparently wasn’t going to start now. “I will never forgive you for this,” I said. “You’ve taken everything from me.”
Even as I said the words, I knew they weren’t true. My father was the one who’d robbed me of my relationship, of fatherhood, of a parallel life that I couldn’t even begin to imagine. But I had Tori now—and I loved her more than anything. The life we would build together, however it turned out, was the life I wanted. In the end, I wouldn’t have traded it—or her—for the world.
“I need to think,” I told Anja, suddenly exhausted.
“Please do. I’ll wait for you to make your choice, so just…take all the time you need,” she said, stepping back. “Your father has my number.”
“Of course he does,” I scoffed, disgusted. Then I headed for the door.
“Stefan—”
“Yeah.”
When she didn’t immediately reply, I turned around to look at her. She took a long, slow breath and moved as close to me as she dared. For a moment she was quiet, but the second she placed a hand over her heart, I knew whatever she was about to say was the truth. The gesture was familiar to me, and I steeled myself for the reveal of another devastating piece of information.
But I wasn’t prepared for what came out of her mouth as she stared into my eyes.
“For what it’s worth,” she finally said, “I still love you. I always have.”
Tori
Chapter 3
My stepmother Michelle came into my life when I was four years old. I could still remember meeting her for the first time. Though I was the kind of child that loved every new person I met, probably due to the fact that I was left in the care of others so frequently, my initial reaction was one of suspicion. Who was this beautiful woman on our doorstep? Why was my father smiling so much at her? This new ‘friend’ of his was glamorous, in heels and lipstick. She was nothing like the older nannies or teenage babysitters he usually introduced me to.
The plan was to take Michelle out to lunch that day, but my father had to take a quick, urgent call from a congressman, so he asked her to help me find my shoes so we could leave as soon as possible. Upstairs in my toy-strewn bedroom, Michelle noticed my dolls and bears arranged in a circle on the floor, a variety of plastic food set out for each of them.
“Is this a tea party?” she’d asked in her gentle southern drawl.
“Nope,” I answered, rolling my eyes. “It’s a campfire. They’re having hot dogs for dinner and telling scary stories.”
“How nice,” Michelle said politely, unearthing my little pink sandals from a pile under the bed and passing them to me. “And I’ll just bet there will be s’mores for dessert.”
“Some more what?” I asked, still wary but letting her help me with the buckles.
“S’mores is a snack,” Michelle explained. “You make them with graham crackers and chocolate and toasted marshmallows, like a sandwich. Haven’t you ever had them?”
When I told her I hadn’t, she insisted we rectify the situation immediately. Then she somehow convinced my father to run out to the store for graham crackers while she helped me look for sticks in the backyard so we could toast marshmallows over the stove.
Our big date turned into the three of us having s’mores on the back porch while Michelle told us about a disastrous camping trip she’d gone on with her very unprepared sorority sisters back in college. I hadn’t seen my dad laugh like that ever, and I decided that Michelle could keep coming around for visits. We had been friends ever since. I’d even helped my father pick out the engagement ring that he proposed to her with some months later.
All this was to say, the word ‘stepmother’ carried no negative connotations for me. But I had no idea what was going through Stefan’s mind right now. I would never stand in the way of him getting to know his son and being a father—the very idea of interfering went against who I was as a person and what I’d experienced myself in my relationship with my own stepmother—but what if this new life of Stefan’s wasn’t compatible with our marriage?
Lots of couples had blended families, though, and I would be thrilled to be a stepmom myself. I imagined what kind of parents Stefan and I would be together. Kind, warm, loving. Fun. I could even teach the kid how to make s’mores, if Anja hadn’t already. Build blanket forts in the den on weekends and take him mini-golfing or to the Shedd Aquarium here in the city.
But maybe my fantasy version of our future family, with Anja as a friend and Max as our shared child, was just that—a fantasy. Maybe it was stupid to assume it would be so simple.
My thoughts reeled dizzyingly as I curled up in a tiny ball in the backseat of the Town Car. The whole way home from Konstantin’s penthouse, I struggled with this new reality. Thoughts of calling Michelle or texting my friend Grace went through my mind, but I didn’t know what I’d say, how I’d even begin to explain what was happening—and I honestly didn’t think there was anything they could say to me that would be comforting. Instead I spent the entire ride back to the condo replaying the scene in my father-in-law’s library over and over again. The whole thing had a distant, unreal quality to it.
I just couldn’t believe this was happening. That Anja was back.
I don’t know why it was such a shock. Ever since Stefan had told me about his relationship with Anja and her deportation and disappearance, I’d assumed she was out there somewhere. I’d been aware that for the last eight years Stefan had made it his mission in life to find her, and I’d been open to the possibility that she might someday be a part of our lives. But I’d never dreamed it would be like this. Never dreamed that Stefan—my husband—had a child.
I looked out the window of the Town Car at the bright lights of Chicago whirling by. It made my eyes hurt.
