Chapter 4 - THE SON WAS HIS
Three days later, Brielle sent one sentence.
The confirmation came back. Preston is the father.
I stared at it.
For a moment, I felt relief.
Not for Preston.
For the baby.
A child should not enter the world carrying adult uncertainty like a debt.
Then Brielle called.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m in Portugal drinking bad office coffee.”
“That sounds okay.”
“It isn’t.”
She almost laughed.
Then became quiet.
“Preston cried.”
I pictured him.
“Happy?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
“He keeps saying he knew it.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know.”
“Does Nathan’s wife?”
A long silence.
“Yes.”
That answered enough.
“How bad?”
“Bad.”
I did not need details.
Nathan’s betrayal belonged to his marriage.
Not mine.
“What is Preston doing about the girls?”
Brielle said nothing.
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“He wants you to bring them back.”
I laughed.
A full, exhausted laugh.
“He told me to take them eleven days ago.”
“I know.”
“Why now?”
“Because everything is collapsing.”
“And?”
“He says they should be here while the family deals with it.”
No.
“He wants his daughters as emotional furniture.”
“That’s not fair.”
Brielle sounded defensive.
Then stopped.
“Actually…”
“Yes.”
She exhaled.
“That might be exactly what he wants.”
My phone buzzed.
Preston.
I answered.
“Lena.”
“You have five minutes.”
“We need to revisit the relocation.”
“No.”
“You haven’t heard me.”
“I heard you fourteen months during divorce.”
His breathing changed.
“The situation is different.”
“For you.”
“My family is in crisis.”
“Emma has spelling homework.”
Silence.
“Sophie starts school music club Thursday.”
“Lena.”
“Their lives did not stop because your brother slept with your girlfriend.”
“Fiancée.”
I paused.
“Congratulations.”
“We were going to announce after the divorce.”
“Your timing remains excellent.”
His anger sharpened.
“I am their father.”
“Then behave like one.”
“I want them home.”
“They are home.”
That stopped him.
“Our house is in Massachusetts.”
“No.”
I looked around our apartment.
Sun through the narrow balcony doors.
Emma’s backpack on one chair.
Sophie’s yellow sweater hanging crookedly over another.
“This is their home now too.”
“You cannot replace me with Portugal.”
“I’m not trying.”
“Then bring them back for two weeks.”
“Why?”
His silence lasted.
“Preston.”
“My mother found out about the fertility treatments.”
There it was.
“She doesn’t know everything.”
“She will.”
“So?”
“I need to explain before the girls say something.”
I went cold.
“You are worried your children might reveal how they were conceived.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is exactly what you said.”
“You don’t understand my family.”
“I spent eleven years in it.”
His voice dropped.
“If my mother learns they aren’t biologically Hales—”
I hung up.
My hands shook.
Not sadness.
Rage.
He called again.
I declined.
Then my attorney forwarded a request from Preston’s counsel.
Not a secret motion.
Not an ambush.
A formal request to temporarily suspend the relocation schedule pending “significant family developments.”
The answer from my attorney was simple.
No legal basis.
Relocation had been fully noticed.
Preston had consented.
School enrollment had already begun.
I should have felt safe.
Instead, I felt tired.
That night Emma found me at the kitchen table with paperwork.
“Is Dad trying to make us come back?”
I hated that she knew.
“Yes.”
“Do we have to?”
“No.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
Then:
“Can we if we want?”
That question mattered even more.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“I don’t want to right now.”
“Okay.”
“Sophie?”
“She decides for herself too.”
Emma looked toward the bedroom.
“She misses him.”
“I know.”
“So do I.”
“I know.”
“But I’m mad.”
“You’re allowed.”
She placed the birthday card on the table.
“I want him to answer.”
“He will.”
“What if he gives a bad answer?”
I looked at my daughter.
“Then you get to decide what you do with it.”
Three days later, Preston requested a video call.
Both girls agreed.
I stayed in the room but off camera.
Sophie appeared first.
“Hi, Daddy.”
Preston’s face changed.
Whatever else he had become, he missed her.
“Hi, bug.”
She smiled despite herself.
Then remembered she was angry.
“Mom told us the doctor thing.”
His expression froze.
Emma sat beside Sophie.
“The donor.”
Preston looked toward wherever I was sitting.
I said nothing.
He returned to the girls.
“Yes.”
Sophie asked the simplest question.
“You picked us?”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“Before we were born?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then Emma spoke.
“Then why did you say Mom should take us because you had a son coming?”
Preston closed his eyes.
When he opened them, no answer had arrived.
Emma waited.
So did Sophie.
Finally he said,
“I was excited.”
Emma’s face changed.
“That’s not an answer.”
My daughter.
Preston swallowed.
“I said something cruel.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom said you have to answer.”
I almost smiled despite everything.
Preston looked broken.
“I thought…”
He stopped.
“What?”
Emma asked.
“I thought having a biological child meant something different.”
Silence.
Sophie frowned.
“Different better?”
He did not answer fast enough.
That was the answer.
Sophie’s face collapsed.
I moved toward the laptop.
She lifted one little hand.
“No.”
Six years old.
Already setting a boundary.
She looked at Preston.
“Daddy, I don’t want to talk anymore.”
His face went white.
“Sophie—”
“Bye.”
She left the sofa.
Emma remained.
She picked up the old card.
Held it toward the camera.
“Did you mean this?”
Preston stared.
“Yes.”
“Then I want that dad.”
His eyes filled.
“So do I.”
Emma shook her head.
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“You have to be him.”
Then she ended the call.
I found Sophie in her bedroom hugging the stuffed rabbit Preston bought her at the hospital when she broke her wrist.
She looked at me.
“Does he like the baby more because the baby has his blood?”
“No child can answer what is inside an adult’s heart.”
She started crying.
I held her.
Then my phone rang.
Robert Hale.
Preston’s father.
I almost ignored it.
Then answered.
“Lena.”
His voice sounded old.
“Are the girls all right?”
“No.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“I need to tell you something about this Hale bloodline nonsense.”
I closed my eyes.
“Not tonight.”
“It matters.”
“Robert—”
“My name wasn’t Hale when I was born.”
I stopped.
“What?”
His voice became quiet.
“My father adopted me when I was eight years old.”
Silence.
“The Hale family Preston is so desperate to continue?”
May you like
Robert exhaled.
“It was chosen for me too.”
