“You were recovering. Then you were rebuilding. Your father and I thought—”
“No. Don’t say you and Dad unless he knew.”
Another silence.
Then, quieter, “Your father knew enough.”
I gripped the edge of the counter. “Enough?”
“He saw them once. At a clinic appointment.”
The room tilted.
“What clinic appointment?”
“Jacob.”
“What clinic appointment?”
She exhaled shakily. “Hannah had complications during the pregnancy. Your father helped with a bill.”
I could barely breathe. “Dad paid her medical bills?”
“Only one.”
“Why?”
“Because he felt responsible.”
“For what?”
My mother did not answer.
The silence stretched until it became an answer of its own.
I ended the call.
For several minutes, I stood in the kitchen staring at nothing.
Then I called my father.
He answered on the second ring.
“Jake.”
No hello. No surprise.
“You knew I saw Hannah.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about Lucas.”
A long pause. “Yes.”
The honesty struck harder than denial.
I sank into a chair. “How long?”
“Since before he was born.”
I pressed my hand over my eyes. “Dad.”
“I wanted to tell you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He was quiet so long I thought the call had dropped.
Then he said, “Because your mother showed me a letter from you saying you wanted no contact with Hannah if the child was yours.”
I looked at the forged letter on the table.
“I never wrote that.”