Chapter 3 - “I WAS PROTECTING YOU”
Beatrice Vance did not deny it.
That was worse than any lie.
Alex drove straight to Beacon Hill.
His mother opened the townhouse door wearing a cashmere sweater and the same controlled expression she used at charity dinners.
“You look terrible.”
“You intercepted Elena’s letter.”
Beatrice’s expression barely moved.
“Come inside.”
“No.”
“Alex—”
“Did you take it?”
She sighed.
“Yes.”
The word hit him like a slap.
“Why?”
“You were finally leaving a marriage that had made you miserable.”
“She was pregnant.”
“I knew.”
“With four children.”
“I knew that too.”
Alex stared at her.
“How?”
“Elena told me.”
“When?”
“When I returned her call.”
His hands curled into fists.
“What did you tell her?”
“That you had made your decision.”
“I didn't know.”
“You had already filed for divorce.”
“That isn't the same thing!”
“Alex, you had spent years in fertility clinics. You were exhausted. Obsessed. Miserable.”
“And your solution was to hide my children?”
Beatrice’s composure cracked.
“I thought she was using the pregnancy to pull you back.”
“She asked me to contact her directly.”
“She knew exactly how guilty you would feel.”
Alex stepped backward as if being near his mother had become physically unbearable.
“You weren't protecting me.”
“I was.”
“No. You were protecting the future you wanted me to have.”
Beatrice’s eyes hardened.
“You weren't going to ruin your life for her.”
The exact words.
The same words she had said six years earlier.
But now Alex heard what they truly meant.
“And what happened when the babies were born?”
Beatrice went silent.
Alex noticed.
“You knew.”
She looked away.
His stomach dropped.
“You knew they survived.”
Still nothing.
“How?”
Beatrice finally whispered, “Elena sent photographs.”
Alex closed his eyes.
“Where are they?”
Beatrice did not answer.
He stepped past her for the first time.
Upstairs.
Toward the office where she kept family records.
“Alex, stop.”
He opened cabinet after cabinet.
Then found a locked drawer.
Beatrice stood behind him.
“Don't.”
He turned.
“What is inside?”
Her eyes filled.
That was answer enough.
The key was in her desk.
Inside the drawer was a thick envelope.
Photographs.
Four newborn babies in incubators.
Hospital bracelets.
A birth announcement.
A letter from Elena.
And beneath them, a laboratory report.
Paternity probability:
99.99%.
Alex stared at his mother.
“You had DNA proof?”
Beatrice covered her mouth.
The report was dated five years earlier.
May you like
His mother had known with certainty.
And she had stayed silent.
