“Yes.”
The word came out so quietly that for a moment I wondered whether Ethan had heard it.
Then his face changed.
Not dramatically.
Ethan Brooks had never been dramatic. Even six years ago, when he was angry, the anger lived in the stillness of his shoulders and the way his voice became softer instead of louder.
Now he took one slow breath.
Then another.
“He is my son.”
It was not a question anymore.
I looked toward the storage-room door.
Outside, Rosie was distracting Theo with the diner’s ancient jukebox. I could hear his small voice asking why anyone needed twenty-seven songs about heartbreak.
“Yes,” I said again.
Ethan turned away from me.
The storage room was barely large enough for two adults, but suddenly the space between us felt enormous.
He placed one hand against the metal shelving. His wedding band was gone.
I noticed that before I could stop myself.
Of course it was gone.
Six years had passed.
I had no right to notice.
“How old is he?” he asked.
“Five.”
His fingers tightened around the shelf.
“When is his birthday?”
I told him.
He closed his eyes.
The date confirmed everything.
I had left shortly after learning I was pregnant.
He had missed the first ultrasound.
The first heartbeat.
The birth.
Five birthdays.
Every bedtime story.
Every lost mitten.
Every time Theo had asked why other children had fathers and he did not.
Ethan looked at me again.
“Why?”
One word.
No accusation.
That made it harder.
I held the edge of the shelf because my knees had begun to shake.
“You would not have believed me.”
His expression sharpened.
“Try me.”
“I did.”
“No, Emily. You disappeared.”
“I tried before I left.”
“When?”
“The night at the lake house.”
Confusion flickered across his face.
“What night?”
“The charity weekend. Your mother’s foundation event. I found out I was pregnant the morning before we drove up.”
Ethan stared at me.
“You knew then?”
“Yes.”
“You said nothing.”
“I was going to tell you after dinner.”
“What stopped you?”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because for six years I had rehearsed this explanation in my head, and now that the moment had come, the truth sounded too fragile to carry the weight placed upon it.
“Your doctor called.”
“My doctor?”
“Dr. Warren.”
The name changed something in Ethan’s face.
“He asked to meet me privately.”
“Why would Warren contact you?”
“He said you had requested it.”
“I did not.”
“I know that now.”
The room seemed to narrow.
I continued before courage left me.
“He showed me your medical file.”
Ethan’s eyes hardened.
“What file?”
“The one that said you could not father a child.”
Silence.
Rain ticked against the small high window.
The coffee machine hissed beyond the door.