Chapter 14 - THE CHILD MICHAEL NEVER KNEW
The boy’s name was Lucas.
Three years old.
Living with a foster family in Indiana.
Michael did not know he existed.
Neither did the child’s biological mother.
Harlow had created him from Michael’s stolen sample and an anonymous donor embryo.
Another experiment.
Another human being treated like paperwork.
Michael cried when we told him.
Then he asked:
“Does he know he has a father?”
“No.”
“Can I see him?”
“Eventually,” the federal caseworker said. “Legally, this is complicated.”
Michael nodded.
For once, a Callahan man accepted that he could not force an answer.
Months passed.
Victor pleaded guilty.
Harlow faced federal charges that would keep him behind bars for decades.
The clinic network was dismantled.
Families were notified privately.
Victims received legal and medical support funded through money seized from Victor’s accounts and matched by Ethan.
Gabriel moved to California.
He wanted to rebuild slowly.
Elena postponed her wedding.
Not canceled.
Postponed.
She said she wanted to marry when the day belonged to her instead of somebody’s trap.
Michael began supervised visits with Lucas.
The first time, he brought a toy truck.
Lucas ignored him for twenty minutes.
Then asked Michael to help build a block tower.
Michael called me afterward and cried.
Ethan never laughed at him for it.
As for Sophie, she learned to sit up.
Then crawl.
Her first word was not Mama.
It was “Da.”
Unfortunately, she said it while looking at Ethan.
He pretended not to be proud.
He failed badly.
I stayed in Chicago longer than planned.
Then longer again.
Eventually Ethan bought the diner where I had worked in Los Angeles.
I was furious.
“I didn’t ask you to buy my job.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because the owner was selling.”
“So?”
“So you said you wanted your own place one day.”
My anger weakened.
“You bought me a diner?”
“No.”
He handed me paperwork.
“I bought myself an investment.”
I read it.
Fifty-one percent ownership.
Mine.
Forty-nine percent.
His.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard.”
Months later, we stood in the kitchen of my new Chicago diner.
Sophie asleep upstairs.
Ethan washing bottles in a suit worth more than my first car.
I laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Rachel.”
“The King of Chicago washing formula bottles.”
He looked at me.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
I smiled.
Then his expression softened.
“I need to ask you something.”
My heart jumped.
He reached into his pocket.
I immediately said:
“No.”
He froze.
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“You were going to propose.”
“No.”
“Oh.”
He held up a key.
“A house.”
I stared.
“No mansion?”
“No guards in the living room.”
“Small?”
“Reasonably.”
“Normal?”
“As normal as anything involving my family gets.”
I looked at the key.
“What are you asking?”
He swallowed.
“Come home with me.”
Not ownership.
Not marriage.
Not forever.
Just home.
I took the key.
“Yes.”
Then Sophie cried upstairs.
Ethan smiled.
“I’ll get her.”
Watching him leave, I thought the worst secrets were finally behind us.
I was wrong.
Because the next morning, Ethan handed me an envelope found in Patrick Callahan’s safe.
It was addressed to me.
May you like
Written seven years before Sophie was born.
RACHEL MORALES.
