Page 22

Dylan

M y parents’ estate loomed like a memory I wasn’t sure I owned, its old brickwork bathed in the golden spill of afternoon light.

Roses climbed the garden walls, their petals vivid against the weathered stone, a riot of color that felt both welcoming and accusatory.

I stepped out of the SUV, Jennifer’s hand warm in mine, and the air carried that familiar scent—earth, blooms, and something indefinable, like time itself.

This was home, or it had been, but it also felt like stepping into a stranger’s life, one I’d abandoned without fully understanding why.

My mother and father stood at the arched doorway, their silhouettes framed by the ivy that clung to the house like a promise.

My mother’s silver hair caught the light, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

My father, taller, his face carved with lines I didn’t remember, held himself stiffly, like he wasn’t sure what came next.

I froze, my throat tight. Were we ‘hugging people’ now?

Had we ever been? Jennifer squeezed my hand, and I moved forward, finding comfort in the familiar crunch of gravel beneath my feet.

“Dylan,” my mother said, her voice a soft crack, and then she was there, arms around me. I hugged her back, cautious, like I might break her—or myself. My father’s hand landed on my shoulder, heavy but warm, and I met his eyes steadily, searching for something.

Understanding?

Forgiveness?

Things I wasn’t sure I deserved.

“I’m back,” I said, the words rougher than I meant. “At least, more than I was yesterday.”

My father’s expression tightened as if he were fighting to remain composed. “Take your time, son. We’re not going anywhere. We’re your parents and we’ll always be here for you.”

I swallowed hard, searching for and failing to find the words to express how deeply I’d needed to hear those words. They hadn’t been perfect parents, but I certainly hadn’t been the perfect son. And yet—there we were—being given a second chance to get it right.

This time we would.

Steven lingered by the SUV, scanning the gardens like a hawk, while Bethany bounced out, with a grin that said she was ready to charm the whole estate. “Whoa,” she said, eyeing the roses. “This place is giving Pride and Prejudice vibes. Where’s Mr. Darcy?”

Jennifer agreed with a chuckle, a sound that eased the knot in my chest, but her eyes stayed on me, watchful, like she was waiting for me to unravel.

Inside, the house was all warm golds and polished wood, chandeliers casting soft glints across the foyer.

The air smelled of cedar and old books, and I swear I could hear the echo of my own laughter from years ago, running through these halls.

We moved to the library, its shelves towering with leather-bound volumes.

I imagined a fire crackling in the hearth.

My mother gestured to the plush chairs, but I couldn’t sit, not yet.

My gaze snagged on a photo on the mantel—me, maybe ten, grinning with a fishing rod, my father’s hand on my shoulder with love and pride in his eyes.

My throat burned. How had I walked away from this?

“I know I didn’t make it easy to love me toward the end,” I said, turning to them, my voice low. “But you did. You never gave up on me. I’m... I’m grateful for that.”

My mother’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes shimmering. “You were always our miracle, Dylan. All we ever wanted was for you to...”

My father cleared his throat, his reserve cracking. “We taught you what we knew, son. What my father taught me. Maybe we should have talked more, asked you what you needed from us—but we always cared. Even if we didn’t show you in the way you wanted us to.”

The words hit like a stone, heavy with truth. I nodded, swallowing hard. Jennifer stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the garden beyond, and I wished I could pull her into this moment, make her part of it. But she was holding back, her smile tight, and I didn’t know why.

“I need to tell you something,” I said, the weight of Thane’s words—a sick experiment, twins, adoptions—pressing down on me. “I remembered that I’m adopted. And that I have a twin. Mark.”

My mother gasped, her hand clutching my father’s. She exchanged a worried glance with Bethany. “How much should we say?” she asked quietly.

Bethany offered a reassuring nod, clearly shifting into nurse mode. “Let him lead. It needs to come back on his terms.”

My father’s jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “We didn’t know you were a twin,” he said, voice rough.

“I know,” I cut in, unable to hold back.

“But he exists. I’ve met him and I handled that badly.

Told him we were adopted. He didn’t know.

I don’t remember everything, but I stayed in Maplebridge to make sure he was okay.

Somehow, I messed that up, too.” I hesitated, taking a breath.

“I don’t like who I was that day, and that’ll never be me again.

” My voice cracked, and I looked at the floor, feeling the sting of shame.

“I don’t want to fight anymore. I came to tell you that I love you and I’m sorry.

.. for everything I remember saying to you and anything that might still be lost in the maze of my head. ”

My mother crossed the room and threw her arms around me again, and I nearly fucking wept. I might have had my father not joined us, his hand on my back, lending me his strength as he always had. Jennifer watched, her eyes filled with happiness, but also a shadow of something else.

A sudden screech split the air, and a blur of feathers swooped through the library, landing on a bust of a long-dead poet. Marrok, my father’s hawk, cocked his head, his amber eyes glinting like he owned the place.

My mother groaned, “That bird,” but her tone held affection.

My father chuckled, a rare sound. “He’s no trouble. Just wants to stay near.”

“You let him get away with too much,” my mother chided.

“He’s a good bird,” my father said, his tone suddenly serious. “I was too strict with the first one.”

My mother had told me about Marrok and my father’s obsession with him. His first hawk had flown away, something he seemingly blamed himself for. Did he feel the same about me? The thought saddened me.

“Any bird would be lucky to live here,” I said with a thick voice.

When my father met my gaze, we shared a look that healed us both more than words ever could have. No more doubting. No more anger. We could move forward now.

Steven, perched awkwardly on a velvet chair, eyed the hawk. “Does it attack?” Marrok’s tail flicked.

Bethany laughed, moving to stand near Steven. “Nurse on duty here. I can patch you up if he does.”

“You’d love that,” Steven muttered.

My mother’s eyes lit. “Bethany, are you single? We know several eligible men.”

Steven’s face went red, his usual stoicism crumbling. “Can we talk about the bird instead?”

Bethany grinned, leaning toward him. “Oh, Steven, you’re so obvious.”

Steven folded his arms across his chest and let out a pained sigh.

My father called Marrok to him. The hawk remained where it was. Then my father spent a painful thirty or so minutes showing us all the things the bird wouldn’t do when he cued it to. For someone who’d always been a business powerhouse, it was funny to see and lightened the mood.

He would spoil grandchildren.

I shot a smile at Jennifer. When the smile she returned was strained, I nodded toward the door, asking without words if she wanted to step outside. She shook her head then seemed to fall into a comfortable conversation with my mother.

Was I imagining tension where there was none?

We moved to the sitting room as dusk settled.

Staff delivered glasses of wine and platters of hors d’oeuvres.

The conversation flowed. My father shared stories of my childhood pranks.

Bethany told tales from the hospital. Some were a bit much for my parents, but they didn’t let on.

Steven didn’t touch the wine, and I remembered why.

He’d once had a drinking problem, and it had cost him everything.

I remembered something else. Danger. I’d gone to Mark to warn him about something.

Jennifer sat close, her shoulder brushing mine.

She remained quiet, fingers absently tracing her glass’s rim.

I wanted to ask what was wrong, but whenever I tried, she brushed it off.

I would have dragged her out of there and demanded she talk to me, but I didn’t want to end the evening and disrupt the healing vibe.

After dinner, Jennifer looked at me, her eyes catching mine, and for a moment, it was just us, the world fallen away. The weight in her gaze stirred a restlessness in me. We needed to talk.

She’s waiting for me to remember something. Something unpleasant.

Am I responsible for the sadness in her eyes?

And if I am, what do I do with that?

Spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her?

Or acknowledge that she might be better off with someone else—someone kinder than I’ve been. Less stubborn. More forgiving.

I leaned closer, my voice low. “Why did we fall apart, Jen?”

Her expression faltered, a flash of pain crossed her face.

She didn’t answer, her lips parted as if to speak, then closed.

The room’s warmth dulled, the laughter faded into a distant hum.

I watched her, my heart pounding with the weight of memory pressing harder, and a question I couldn’t yet answer.