Page 148 of Ruthless Claim

My mother’s voice blooms in my mind: back straight, chin up, not here. Do not fall apart in front of them, you deal with it later.

Back straight. Chin up.

I stand up. “Thank you,” I tell the genetic counselor evenly, which is downright impressive given my emotional state. But apparently I’m on autopilot and years of my mother’s good manners being drilled into my head are unconsciously done.

I walk out of the room and into the hallway, looking for the bathroom. I find it and go into the furthest stall. My hands are shaking so badly it takes me two times to manage to lock the door. Once I do, I press my back against the wall and breathe.

The shaking in my hands is violent. I stare at them before I realize that my body is starting to shake too. It starts to work its way up through my arms and into my chest and then I can’t breathe, or I can breathe but the breaths aren’t doing anything.

This is a panic attack. They became frequent after Gabriel was murdered.

The walls feel like they’re closing in and it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I claw at my blouse, desperate for air. My body has clearly had enough and decided to stage a revolt.

Five things you can see. My therapist’s voice is in my head now. Four things you can touch.

The back of the door. The lock. The tile. The—the—no, I can’t do it. I can’t do this stupid fucking exercise right now.

Cillian has a son.

Not a maybe. Not an alleged. 99.97%. Conclusive. Cillian Brennan is the biological father of that child.

There is an eight-year-old boy who belongs half to Cillian. He is now, irrevocably and permanently, part of our lives.

Our lives. Mine.

The sob that comes out of me comes from somewhere deep within. It doesn’t respond to my mother’s voice or my therapist’s exercises or any of the tools I have spent years carefully cultivating. I couldn’t stop this if I tried.

So I don’t try.

I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the disgusting floor with my knees pulled up and I press both hands over my mouth and I cry. It’s not the composed crying I’ve used before—one well-placed tear can move mountains.

No, this is the ugly type of crying. The kind that sounds animalistic and doesn’t care about the tile floor or the fact that my coat is going to need dry cleaning.

Cillian has a son.

And Claire—Claire is the mother of that son. She is going to be in our lives permanently.

She is the mother of his firstborn child and she will be at every birthday, every school event, every milestone, every Christmas arrangement and summer schedule, and she has already made abundantly clear that she has plans that extend well beyond amicable co-parenting.

She is going to be everywhere.

And I am pregnant.

Can I do this? Can I really be married to a man who has another child, who lied to me for a month about it? Can I really leave the man who I love more than life itself?

God, I love him so much it terrifies me, and that’s the worst part. The love is still there underneath all the hurt; it didn’t go away when I wanted it to go away. I’ll always love him.

But am I strong enough to walk away?

I don’t know.

I sniffle and snot pools under my nose. Ugh, I can barely breathe. I lean forward and cut off a section of toilet paper, blowing my nose noisily. Ugh again. I feel so tired and weak, my body heavy.

I stay on the floor for a little bit longer, just to make sure that I won’t burst into tears again. Then I make myself stand up, unlock the door and force myself to look in the mirror. I wince.

God, I look horrible.

My eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, the skin around them pink and tight. My nose is as red as Rudolph’s, and my face is blotchy from the crying. I wince at the mascara tracks on my face. I look like a goddamn racoon.