Page 51

51

STEFI

T hree days after Joao is discharged from the hospital, we sit down with Christopher in our living room to tell him the truth.

We’re not alone. Dr. Alvarez, a therapist that Valentina recommended, is there with us, but even her warmly reassuring smile doesn’t help calm my nerves. A thousand butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I feel even more queasy than usual.

I grip Joao’s hand hard enough to cut off circulation. Dr. Alvarez leans forward. “Ewan,” she says gently. “Stefi and Joao have something very important to share with you.”

Our son has been living with us for the last week, but he’s cautious, wary, and mistrustful. He looks suspicious now. “What is it?” he asks, a belligerent note in his voice. “Is it time for me to leave?”

My heart squeezes painfully. Not that, never that.

“No,” Joao responds quietly. “Ewan, Stefi and I recently learned something about you.” He draws a breath. “And something about us. Almost eight years ago, Stefi had a baby, but she thought she lost him during childbirth.” He draws a breath. “Turns out that was a lie. Because our child was actually alive.”

Our son goes still, his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive gesture. “And?”

My throat is tight, but I force the words out. “That child is you. You’re our son.”

His eyes widen, and he leans back in his chair as if trying to put space between us. “No,” he says flatly. “Henrik told me that my parents were dead.” His voice rises. “Why are you lying to me?”

I give the therapist a helpless look and she intervenes. “I know it’s a lot to process, Ewan,” she says calmly. “It’s okay to feel confused or upset.”

His hands shake, and he digs his fingers into the chair cushion. “I’m not confused,” he says. “They are. They aren’t my parents. That’s a lie.”

I don’t know how to get through to him. “I named you in the hospital,” I whisper. “Christopher. I held a dead baby in my arms and wept, and I buried you in a grave I visit every year.” My eyes are wet with tears. “Ewan Wagner might have been the name Bach used, but it’s not your name. You’re. . . you’re our son Christopher.”

Joao slides off the couch and onto the floor. “I’ve missed—we’ve missed—almost eight years of your life,” he says, his voice thick. “We weren’t there when you needed us. We didn’t protect you or keep you safe. And I’m sorry, Christopher. I’m so sorry. I would do anything to turn back time and fix the past, but I can’t.” He holds his hand out to the boy. “All I can do is promise you that we’re here now, and from this moment on, we will always be here for you.”

I hold my breath as Joao waits, his hand outstretched, for our son to respond.

Christopher’s breathing quickens. He stares down at his hands. “You can’t be my parents,” he says again, but there’s a new note in his voice. It’s not just anger and fear now. There’s a faint undertone of hope. “If you were, why didn’t you find me?”

“We didn’t know you were alive,” I choke out, my voice breaking. “If we’d known. . .” I follow Joao’s lead and stretch my hand out. “I would burn the world down to keep you safe.”

He doesn’t respond for a long time.

Dr. Alvarez puts an encouraging hand on our son’s shoulder, and I blink my tears back at how bleak he looks. “You don’t have to say anything,” I promise him. “Not today, not ever. We’re always going to be here.”

“I don’t have to leave?”

“Never,” Joao vows. “This is your home now.”

“Okay.” He still doesn’t look up at us, but he stretches his hand out, too. For a moment, for one brief shining second, he lets his hand brush over ours. And then, scrambling to his feet, he runs out of the room.

Dr. Alvarez looks pleased. “It probably doesn’t seem like it, but that went really well.”

The tears spill down my cheeks, and Joao envelops me in his arms. “It did?” I ask hopefully.

“It really did,” she reassures me. “I’ll be back tomorrow, and we can pick up where we left off. Okay?”

Hope. There was a time when I wouldn’t let myself feel that emotion, but I cling to it now. “Okay.”

Charlie returns home just as Dr. Alvarez is leaving, her arms laden with shopping bags. She takes a look at our faces and immediately guesses what happened. “You told him? How did it go?”

“He hasn’t run away yet,” I reply, my voice shaky. “So, so far, so good, I guess.”

She rolls her eyes. “You two,” she says. “He’s not going to run away. Why would he?” She pats my shoulder. “Stefi, you know why you can’t get rid of me? You didn’t just tell me I’d be safe—you made me feel it. Ewan knows the difference between the people that make promises and the people that actually keep them. He’s going to be okay, I promise.” She raises her voice. “Ewan, come help me with the shopping.”

From the next room, there’s a beat of silence before my son appears in the doorway. His eyes flit between Charlie and us before he takes a step toward her. “You bought a lot of food.”

“I did.” She hands him a couple of shopping bags. “Help me carry this into the kitchen, will you?”

“Okay.” He starts to take a step toward the door, and then he adds, “And my name isn’t Ewan. It’s Christopher.”

I freeze. For a moment, I’m too stunned to speak. I exchange a disbelieving look with Joao, and he squeezes my hand tight. My heart feels like it’s about to overflow with happiness. Our son claimed his name. His real name, the one we chose for him.

Charlie blinks, her usual breezy confidence faltering for an instant before she recovers. “Okay,” she says, her tone light. “Christopher, please help me carry the bags into the kitchen.” She tousles his hair. “And don’t slam them down on the counter, please. You don’t want to crush the tomatoes.”

My son rolls his eyes. “If you didn’t want the tomatoes crushed, why’d you put them in the bottom of the bag?”

Joao and I watch the two of them squabble good-naturedly as they leave the room. When they’re out of earshot, he smiles down at me. “You know something?” he says. “I really think it’s going to be okay.”

“I do, too,” I whisper. “I really do.”

He kisses my forehead and brushes a finger over my wedding band. “There’s nobody left on your list,” he says, a look of contentment settling on his face. “So what happens now?”

“I’ve always wanted to live with my family in a house with yellow walls and windows that overlook the water,” I tell him, my heart beating in my chest. The last week has been so busy, and we’ve both been so worried about Christopher that we haven’t had a chance to talk about us—about our future.

“I’ve dreamed about waking up every morning next to the man I love, and I want a chance to do that.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I promised you I’d love and cherish you for the rest of my life, and I’d like to keep that promise. If you want me to, of course.”

He gives me a disbelieving look. “Stef,” he says. “Have you not been paying attention for the last eight weeks? Of course, I want you.” He pulls me close and kisses me on the lips, long and hard. “If we weren’t already married, I’d ask you to marry me right now, all over again. You are the first person I think about when I wake up and the last thought in my mind before I sleep. You are my home and my family, my past, present, and future.”

He rests his hand lightly on my stomach. “There’s only one problem.”

“What is it?”

“Charlie’s got one of our two spare bedrooms,” he says. “Christopher has the other.” He gives me a cheerful grin, and I feel myself smile back in reply. “We’re going to need a bigger house.”