Chapter 2 - THE CALL I FINALLY ANSWERED
Lisbon was raining when we landed.
Not dramatic rain.
Just a fine gray mist that softened the airport windows and made every runway light look blurred around the edges.
Sophie pressed her nose against the glass.
“Portugal is wet.”
Emma sighed.
“It rains in America too.”
“I know. But this is Portuguese rain.”
Apparently geography improved precipitation.
I laughed for the first time that day.
Then my phone reconnected.
Twenty-seven notifications appeared.
Fourteen from Preston.
Six from Diane.
Three from Robert.
Two from my attorney.
One from Natalie.
And one from a number I did not recognize.
Preston’s final message sat at the top.
DO NOT TELL THE GIRLS ANYTHING ABOUT TODAY. CALL ME BEFORE YOU MAKE THIS WORSE.
I stared at it.
Five hours earlier, he had told me to take them because he had a son coming.
Now he was worried about what I might tell them.
That alone told me whatever happened at Brielle’s ultrasound had been bad.
Emma stood beside me with her backpack.
“Dad again?”
“Yes.”
“Is he mad we left?”
The question hurt because she was already trying to interpret his feelings before her own.
“No.”
I put my phone away.
“Whatever Dad is feeling is for Dad to handle.”
She studied me.
“Are we still going to our apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Still starting school Monday?”
“Yes.”
“Then okay.”
Nine years old.
Already better at separating emergencies than most adults I knew.
We collected our bags.
Our new apartment sat in Campo de Ourique, on a narrow street lined with balconies, little cafés, and more parked scooters than Sophie believed should legally fit in one neighborhood.
She loved it instantly.
Emma pretended not to.
That evening, I found her standing in the bedroom she had chosen, holding a framed photograph from our old house.
Preston with both girls at Cape Cod.
Emma was six.
Sophie three.
All three had ice cream on their faces.
“You can put it up,” I said.
Emma looked embarrassed.
“I wasn’t going to hide it.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
She stared at the picture.
“Can you be mad at somebody and still miss them?”
“Yes.”
“Can you not want to talk to them and still love them?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She placed the photograph on her dresser.
That was all.
I turned away before she could see my eyes.
For eleven days, Preston called.
I answered twice.
Both conversations lasted less than four minutes.
The first was about travel documentation he had already signed.
The second was about the girls.
Or was supposed to be.
“You cannot keep them away indefinitely.”
“I’m not.”
“You left the country.”
“With written permission in our final agreement.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“No. I know exactly what you meant.”
Silence.
Then:
“Things have become complicated.”
“Your complications are not Emma and Sophie’s responsibility.”
“You need to hear what happened.”
“No.”
That stopped him.
“I need to hear anything that affects our daughters.”
His voice hardened.
“This affects the family.”
“They are the family.”
He went quiet.
Good.
I ended the call.
On the eleventh evening, the unknown number called again.
I almost ignored it.
Then a text appeared.
Lena, it’s Brielle. Please don’t hang up. I need to tell you what happened at the appointment before Preston turns it into something else.
I stared at the screen for almost a minute.
Then answered.
“Five minutes.”
Her breathing sounded shaky.
“Thank you.”
“This isn’t friendship.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
Brielle was quiet.
Then:
“Nathan gave the sample.”
I closed my eyes.
The ultrasound room flashed through my imagination.
Preston turning toward his brother.
Nathan losing color.
“Why?”
“Because we slept together.”
There it was.
Ugly.
Simple.
“When?”
“Once.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Five months ago.”
I sat down.
That would have been during the divorce.
Preston and I had already separated physically.
He had already been seeing Brielle.
“Did Preston know?”
“No.”
“Was Nathan married?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“Excellent family values.”
“I deserve that.”
“This isn’t about what you deserve.”
“No.”
Her voice broke slightly.
“It’s about the baby.”
“What about him?”
“I panicked after I found out I was pregnant.”
She had calculated dates.
Nathan was possible.
Preston was possible.
Instead of telling either man, she paid for an expanded prenatal package that allowed comparison against a reference sample.
Nathan agreed to submit one secretly.
“And the incompatibility?”
“He isn’t the father.”
That was the first reversal.
Nathan’s affair had been exposed by a test proving the child was not his.
“So Preston could still be.”
“Yes.”
“Could.”
“Yes.”
“He submitted his own sample two days after the ultrasound.”
“And?”
“We don’t have the confirmation yet.”
I waited.
“That isn’t why you called.”
“No.”
Her voice changed.
“The genetic counselor requested Preston’s previous fertility records.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because he told her he had never had any fertility treatment.”
I said nothing.
Brielle noticed.
“Lena?”
“What did the records show?”
“That he was treated before Emma was born.”
Still I said nothing.
Then Brielle asked the question Preston had apparently spent eleven years making sure nobody in his family asked.
“Why does the file say donor conception?”
The room went completely silent around me.
And from the hallway, Emma’s voice said,
“Mom?”
I looked up.
She stood in the doorway wearing pajamas.
Holding an old birthday card.
May you like
Preston’s handwriting covered the front.
TO THE GIRL WHO MADE ME A DAD.
