Chapter 6 - What a Child Hears
There is no good answer to a ten-year-old asking why his father didn’t want him.
There are only less damaging answers.
I sat on the bottom stair beside Ethan.
“He didn’t know you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
My son had always been precise.
It was one of the things I loved most about him.
I took his hand.
“Your father made selfish choices before you were born.”
“Because of the company?”
“Partly.”
“Because of Veronica?”
“Partly.”
“Because of us?”
“No.”
He looked unconvinced.
“You weren’t a problem he rejected, Ethan. You were people he was too afraid and selfish to know.”
His eyes filled.
“That sounds the same.”
I pulled him against me.
For several minutes, he let himself cry.
Later that night, Christopher sent one message.
I deserve whatever you think of me. But please don’t let Ethan and Emma think they were unwanted.
I stared at it.
Then typed:
You need to understand something. Children don’t judge what you secretly felt. They judge what you did.
He did not respond.
Three days later, Emma asked to meet him.
Not Ethan.
Emma.
My daughter had always approached pain like a locked box.
She wanted to open it.
Examine the pieces.
Decide what belonged where.
We met Christopher in a public garden near Harbor House.
Daniel suggested neutral ground.
Christopher arrived fifteen minutes early.
Emma walked toward him holding her sketchbook.
I stayed on a nearby bench.
For nearly a minute, neither spoke.
Then Emma said, “You have Ethan’s eyebrows.”
Christopher laughed nervously.
“I suppose I do.”
“No. He has yours.”
Christopher’s smile disappeared.
“Yes.”
She sat.
He sat across from her.
Emma opened the sketchbook.
She had drawn our family.
Me.
Ethan.
Aunt Ruth.
Our orange cat, Beans.
There was a blank space on the right.
Christopher stared at it.
“Is that supposed to be me?”
“No.”
His face tightened.
“It’s where you would’ve been.”
I looked away.
Even I couldn’t bear that.
Emma turned the page.
“Mom says you made selfish decisions.”
“I did.”
“Did you hate her?”
“No.”
“Did you love Veronica?”
“I thought I did.”
“Did you love Mom?”
Christopher swallowed.
“Yes.”
Emma frowned.
“Then you were stupid.”
Despite everything, I nearly laughed.
Christopher did too.
Then his eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Emma studied him.
“Are you still stupid?”
He took a breath.
“I’m trying not to be.”
That answer seemed to satisfy her more than an apology would have.
She closed the sketchbook.
“I don’t want you to call yourself Dad yet.”
Christopher nodded.
“That’s fair.”
“You can be Christopher.”
“Okay.”
“And Ethan probably won’t talk to you.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
Christopher looked at her.
Emma’s voice softened.
“He listened to Mom cry when she thought we were asleep.”
My chest tightened.
Christopher stared down.
“He remembers everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
Emma stood.
“Don’t tell me.”
She pointed toward me.
“Tell her.”
Then she walked away.
Christopher remained on the bench.
I approached.
He didn’t look up.
“I’m sorry, Samantha.”
I said nothing.
He finally raised his eyes.
“I knew you were pregnant three days before the wedding.”
“I heard you.”
“Leonard told me you claimed the pregnancy might not be mine.”
“That was forged.”
“I know.”
“You knew enough to ask me.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Christopher looked toward the trees.
“Because Frederick Mercer had offered me the executive-track position.”
Veronica’s father.
Summit’s chairman.
“He told me scandal would destroy my future. Leonard told me you weren’t sure who the father was. Veronica said you were trying to stop the wedding.”
He laughed bitterly.
“All I had to do was call you.”
“Yes.”
“But if you said they were mine…”
“You would have had to choose.”
Christopher looked at me.
“And I was afraid of what I would choose.”
That answer hurt more than any lie.
Because it was the truth.
He chose Summit.
He simply refused to look directly at what Summit cost him.
“I can’t forgive that for you,” I said.
“I know.”
“And the kids don’t owe you a relationship.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I finally do.”
Before I could answer, his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
Veronica.
He declined it.
It rang again.
Then a message appeared.
Christopher’s face changed.
“What?”
He showed me.
Veronica had written:
Tell Samantha to stop digging or Harbor House loses its building.
I stared at him.
“What does she mean?”
May you like
Christopher looked sick.
Then he said, “Summit owns the mortgage.”
