Chapter 4
And strangely, acknowledging that made everything easier.
I did not need to pretend I had earned a place I had not yet occupied.
I could begin where I actually was.
At the beginning.
After breakfast, Emily took the twins into the backyard to make what Luke called a snow dinosaur.
Cassandra and I remained at the kitchen table.
Between us sat two untouched cups of coffee.
“You spoke to your mother,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And Martin?”
“Yes.”
“How did that go?”
“He’s no longer with the company.”
Cassandra looked down.
“I assumed.”
“He admitted everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything he knew.”
She nodded slowly.
Then I reached into my coat and removed a folded photocopy.
“My mother told me about the letter you wrote before we broke up.”
Cassandra went completely still.
“I wondered if she would.”
“She said my father saw it.”
“He did.”
“You talked to him?”
“Once.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“Two days before I left Seattle.”
This was another piece of my life that had existed outside my knowledge.
“What did you say to him?”
Cassandra wrapped both hands around her coffee cup.
“That I was scared.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
She met my eyes.
“Of what you were becoming.”
I looked away.
Three years earlier, I would have heard that as criticism.
Now I heard concern.
“You were working eighteen-hour days,” she continued. “You stopped sleeping properly. You cancelled dinner with your father when he was already sick, though neither of us knew how sick. You missed my graduate ceremony.”
“I remember.”
“You arrived afterward.”
“Forty minutes late.”
“Two hours.”
I winced.
“Right.”
“You were physically present sometimes, Damon. But your mind was always somewhere else.”
She paused.
“And the worst part was that I kept helping you do it.”
I frowned.
“How?”
“I covered for you. I made excuses. I moved plans. I told myself the next deal would be the last impossible month. Then there was always another impossible month.”
“You could have told me.”
“I did.”
That hurt because it was true.
She had.
Many times.
Not dramatically.
Not with ultimatums.
With simple sentences.
Can we have dinner without your phone tonight?
Could you come home before midnight?
Your dad asked about you.
I miss you.
I had treated each sentence as a temporary inconvenience.
“I thought you wanted me to choose between you and the company,” I said.
“I wanted you to realize there shouldn’t have been only two choices.”
I sat back.
Outside, Luke shouted something about dinosaur footprints.
Cassandra smiled toward the window.
Then her expression grew thoughtful.
“When I left, I thought maybe losing us would force you to stop.”
“It did the opposite.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You were in the business pages every week.”
I gave a small laugh.
“Those articles rarely mentioned whether I was happy.”
“I didn’t assume you were.”
Silence settled between us.
Not uncomfortable.
Just full.
I finally asked the question that had followed me since my mother’s call.
“Did you still love me when you left?”
Cassandra’s eyes moved to mine.
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate.
Simple.
“Do you know how long I believed you didn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried in the letter.”
“The one I never got.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the window.
“After I left, I expected you to come after me.”
“I expected you to come back.”
A sad smile touched her mouth.
“We were very good at waiting for the other person to move.”
“And terrible at moving.”
“Yes.”
I hesitated.
“Then you found out you were pregnant.”
“Six weeks later.”
“What did you do?”
“I cried in a grocery store parking lot for twenty minutes.”
I almost smiled.
“That specific?”
“I was holding frozen peas.”
“Why peas?”
“They were on sale.”
“That does sound like you.”
She laughed softly.
Then her eyes grew serious.
“I was scared. But I was also happy.”
“Happy?”
“I wanted children someday.”
“With me?”
Her expression softened.
“At the time, yes.”
The words should have hurt.
Instead they felt fair.
Three years had passed.
People changed.
Love changed.
“You called me.”
“Yes.”
“And Martin answered.”
“Eventually.”
“You wrote.”
“Yes.”
“You contacted my mother.”
“Yes.”
“Then you stopped.”
“I had to.”
She took a breath.
“I had two babies coming. I couldn’t spend every day trying to convince someone to want us.”
I lowered my eyes.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
I looked up.
She continued gently.
“And that’s okay.”
There was no accusation in it.
“You don’t understand what those years were like because you weren’t there. And I don’t understand what it was like for you to believe I left because I stopped loving you.”
I nodded slowly.
“So where does that leave us?”
“With the truth.”
“And then?”
“We see what the truth can support.”
That sounded like Cassandra.
Practical even when her heart was involved.
I smiled faintly.
“Still an architect.”
“Still a man who turns everything into a negotiation.”
“That wasn’t a negotiation.”
“It sounded like one.”
“Fine.”
I folded my hands.
“What would you like the truth to support?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Better.”
“I’m learning.”
She considered me for a moment.
“I want the twins to know you.”
“I want that too.”
“Slowly.”
“Yes.”
“No press.”
“Obviously.”
“No Prescott family announcement.”
“Agreed.”
“No lawyers deciding schedules before we do.”
“Agreed.”
“And no buying a house next door.”
I stared at her.
“I hadn’t considered that.”
“You are considering it now.”
“A little.”
“Damon.”
“I won’t buy a house next door.”
She gave me the look I remembered from years ago.
“Or on this street.”
“Fine.”
“Or in the neighborhood.”
“This negotiation is becoming restrictive.”
She smiled.
I smiled too.
Then her face became serious again.
“The DNA test.”
“I arranged one through an independent clinic.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, if that works.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
“I’m not worried about the result.”
“Neither am I.”
“But you were right. It matters that everything is clear.”
“Yes.”
The back door opened.
Luke came inside carrying snow on approximately every surface of his body.
“Damon!”
It was the first time he said my name.
Not angry man.
Not mister.
Damon.
I turned.
“What happened?”
“We made you.”
I blinked.
“You made me?”
“In snow.”
Emily appeared behind him, laughing.
“He means a snowman.”
Luke shook his head.
“No. Snow Damon.”
I followed them outside.
In the middle of the yard stood a lopsided snow figure wearing Emily’s scarf.
Two green bottle caps served as eyes.
A stick had been pressed into the mouth.
“What is that?” I asked.
Luke pointed.
“Your phone.”
The snowman was holding a rectangular piece of cardboard.
Cassandra burst out laughing behind me.
I looked at the cardboard phone.
“Accurate.”
Emily whispered to Cassandra, “He’s taking this well.”
“I’m growing.”
Violet stood beside the snow figure and patted its side.
Then she reached for my hand.
Not because she understood who I was.
Not because some invisible instinct told her I was her father.
Simply because I was standing nearby and she wanted help stepping over a patch of snow.
That made it mean more.
I took her hand.
Her fingers were tiny inside her mitten.
“Careful,” I said.
She stepped over the snow.
Then forgot to let go.
So I didn’t either.
The DNA results arrived three days later.
99.9998 percent probability of paternity.
I printed the report.
Then stared at it for nearly an hour.
There was no dramatic revelation.
No surprise.
Just confirmation.
Luke and Violet were my children.
Cassandra and I met at a quiet café after Emily offered to watch the twins.
I slid the report across the table.
She glanced at it.
“Now you know.”
“I knew.”
“Now you know on paper.”
I nodded.
“What happens next?”
She smiled faintly.
“You really hate not having a plan.”
“Yes.”
“So here’s one.”
She had brought a notebook.
Of course she had.
She opened it.
Visits.
Video calls.
Emergency contacts.
Medical information.
Preschool dates.
Favorite foods.
Bedtime habits.
Luke liked stories about space.
Violet disliked loud hand dryers.
Both children called broccoli “tiny trees.”
May you like
I read every line.
Then I turned the page.
