Jack’s handwriting was on the first page.
Claire,
I’m sorry you’re learning this without me.
There’s a five-year-old boy named Ethan.
You don’t owe him anything. If you want to stop here, stop.
But if you find him, you’ll understand why I couldn’t walk away.
I’m sorry I never told you.
I read it twice, suddenly so light-headed that I thought I might faint.
“Ethan who?”
Mara said nothing.
“Is Ethan your son?”
“No.”
“Were you sleeping with Jack?”
“No.”
“Then who is he?”
“I can’t tell you.”
I actually laughed.
“You come to a pregnant widow’s house with a letter from her dead husband telling her to find a five-year-old boy, and you can’t tell me who he is?”
“Jack wanted you to decide whether to keep looking.”
“Why?”
“Because once you know, you can’t unknow it.”
“Stop talking like you’re in a movie.”
She flinched.
“You’re right.”
“Who are you?”
“I grew up in care. Jack and I knew each other from the children’s home.”
That stopped me. My eyes filled with tears.
Jack almost never talked about those years.
“You knew him as a kid?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“I work with families and children moving through the system.”
“Was that why you were at the hospital?”
“I was helping him locate Ethan and understand what options existed.”
I swallowed.
“Then whose child is Ethan?”
Mara shook her head.
“I promised Jack I wouldn’t tell you who Ethan was.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But he wanted you to decide whether you wanted to keep looking. He didn’t want me putting another responsibility in your lap the week he died.”
“Did he have another family?”
“That’s exactly the question Jack made me promise not to answer.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“It means if you want the answer, you have to keep looking.”
Then she left.
By the time Mara left, I was convinced Jack had a son.
The next morning, I opened Jack’s laptop.
He had changed the password.
After twenty minutes, I tried the date we met.
It opened.
“Seriously, Jack?”
Lucy looked up.
“Is Daddy in the computer?”
My throat closed.
“No, sweetheart. Mommy’s just looking for something.”
One name kept appearing on Jack’s laptop.
Ethan C.
“Who are you?”
“Mommy?”
“Nothing, baby.”
I found legal fees, childcare expenses, and ETHAN TRUST.
“You had a trust for him?”
“Is that Daddy’s computer?”
“Yes.”
“Are you mad at Daddy?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Then I found the insurance documents.
He had protected money for Lucy, the baby, and me.
“Are you still mad?”
“Yes.”
“At Daddy?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Because he should’ve told me.”
“Can you ask him?”
My hand froze on the mouse.
“No, baby.”
“Oh.”
Then I found the maps.
The same address appeared again and again.
Forty minutes away.
I called Mara.
“I found the money.”
Silence.
“Claire…”
“I’m going to that address.”
“Please don’t show up angry.”
“So he is Jack’s son.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Whatever you think Jack did, don’t make Ethan pay for it.”
“I would never hurt a child.”
“I know. That’s why Jack trusted you.”
“Don’t tell me what my husband thought.”
“Then go. But go for the truth, not revenge.”
I drove there believing I was about to meet proof that my marriage had been a lie.
But the person waiting at that address was about to turn my entire theory upside down.
The address belonged to a foster family.
A woman opened the door.
“I’m Denise.”
“Claire.”
Her expression changed.
“Jack’s wife.”
“You knew him?”
“He visited Ethan.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Can I see him?”
Denise studied me, then sighed.
“Come in.”
A little boy was building a train track.
He looked up.
Dark eyes. A stubborn cowlick.
I grabbed the back of a chair.
“Oh my God.”
Denise stepped closer.
“Are you okay?”
“He looks like Jack.”
She glanced at Ethan but said nothing.
“He does, doesn’t he?”
“I suppose a little.”
A little? This was his son.
I was so sure of it that I stopped considering any other explanation.
“Ethan,” Denise said gently, “this is Claire.”
His face brightened.
“I know.”
“You know me?”
“Jack showed me your picture.”
“He did?”
“And Lucy’s.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That she likes dinosaurs.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“She does.”
“And you make pancakes on Sundays.”
My smile disappeared.
Jack had talked about us here.
“How often did he come?”
Denise hesitated.
“Quite a few times.”
“Alone?”
“Not always.”
“Who came with him?”
“An older woman. Mrs. Bennett.”
The name hit me immediately.
“What did she tell you about Ethan?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Claire, this is a family home. We have several children here. We’re given the information we need to care for them, not every detail of their families.”
“But you knew Jack.”
“I knew he cared about Ethan.”
“As his father?”
Denise’s expression tightened.
“I can’t answer that.”
“Because you’re not allowed to?”
“Because I honestly don’t know.”
I stared at Ethan.
I thought I was finally close to the truth. What I learned next changed the entire story.
I pulled out my phone.
“She knows.”
“Knows what?”
I was already searching for the number.
“Who Ethan is.”
Mrs. Bennett answered on the fourth ring.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Claire. I’m Jack’s wife.”
“Oh.”
That one word told me I had found the right person.
“Jack contacted you last year.”
“Yes.”
“I need to know why.”
