Chapter 1: The Chair He Left Empty
I gave birth to our son without my husband beside me.
His phone had been off for five hours.
When he finally stepped into my hospital room, he was carrying a four-year-old girl I had never seen before.
She was wearing his jacket.
She knew his name.
And when he tried to set her down, she clung to his neck and cried,
"Daddy, please don't leave me again."
I looked at my husband and asked, "Who is she?"
He didn't answer fast enough.
So I asked the question that terrified me more.
"How long have you known about her?"
Reid lowered his eyes.
"Three weeks."
I had been married to him for six years.
And suddenly, I wasn't sure I knew who had just walked through that door.
Five hours earlier, I had still been defending him.
"He'll be here," I told the nurse.
The contraction tightened across my abdomen so hard I had to close my eyes.
Nurse Callie waited until it passed.
"Do you want me to call someone else, Maren?"
"No."
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
I looked at the chair beside the bed.
Reid's chair.
The one he had dragged close to me when we arrived at the hospital that afternoon.
He had kissed my forehead and said, "I'm not leaving this room unless you throw me out."
Then, just after eight, his phone rang.
I watched his expression change.
"What happened?" I asked.
He was already reaching for his coat.
"Family emergency."
"What kind?"
"I don't know yet."
Another contraction began.
Reid came back to the bed and grabbed my hand.
"I need twenty minutes."
"You're leaving?"
"I'll be right back."
"Reid."
He bent down until our foreheads touched.
"Twenty minutes.
I promise."
That was the last thing he said to me before disappearing.
Twenty minutes became an hour.
Then two.
By midnight, his calls went straight to voicemail.
By one in the morning, my labor had progressed too far for anyone to pretend this was still normal.
My mother arrived with her coat thrown over her pajamas.
One look at the empty chair beside my bed told her everything.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
She didn't criticize him.
That almost made it worse.
At 2:46 a.m., my son was born.
Seven pounds, four ounces.
A full head of dark hair.
Ten fingers.
Ten toes.
Perfect.
The doctor placed him on my chest.
Everyone expected me to cry from happiness.
I did.
But underneath the happiness was something ugly and raw.
I kept looking at that chair.
I had imagined Reid cutting the cord.
I had imagined him crying.
I had imagined his face when he heard our son's first breath.
Instead, my mother held one of my hands while a nurse held the other.
When they asked what his name was, I whispered, "Theo."
The name Reid and I had chosen together on a rainy Sunday three months earlier.
Theo Shaw.
Our son.
Only one of us had been there to meet him.
By the time the room quieted, dawn was beginning to pale the windows.
Mom had gone downstairs for coffee.
Theo slept against my chest.
I was too exhausted to feel angry anymore.
Then the door opened.
Reid stood there.
For half a second, relief hit me so hard I almost cried again.
Then I saw the child in his arms.
She was tiny.
Brown hair tangled against one cheek.
Pink sneakers.
A faded backpack hung over Reid's shoulder.
And she was wrapped in his navy jacket.
Reid looked wrecked.
His hair was damp with sweat.
There was dried bl00d on one cuff, though I couldn't tell whose.
"Maren—"
The girl stirred.
Her eyes opened.
She looked at Reid.
Then she tightened both arms around his neck.
"Daddy?"
The word knocked the air out of me.
Reid went completely still.
The girl's bottom lip trembled.
"Please don't leave me again."
My fingers tightened around Theo's blanket.
Reid whispered, "June…"
He knew her name.
That hurt almost as much as Daddy.
"Who is she?"
Reid looked at Theo.
His face crumpled for one terrible second.
He had missed his son's birth.
And now he was standing beside my bed holding another child.
"Maren, I can explain."
"How long have you known her?"
He hesitated.
Wrong answer.
"How long?"
"Three weeks."
The room seemed to tilt.
Three weeks.
Not tonight.
Not an accident.
Not a stranger he had helped on the road.
Three weeks.
I stared at the girl.
She looked about four.
Four years ago, Reid and I had already been living together.
Four years ago, we had been planning our wedding.
The math formed before I could stop it.
I looked back at my husband.
"Put her down."
June's arms tightened around him.
Reid swallowed.
"She's scared."
"So am I."
"Maren—"
"Take her outside."
His face changed.
Not anger.
Pain.
That almost made me hate him more.
He stepped backward.
June buried her face against his shoulder.
As he reached the door, I asked one more question.
"How old is she?"
Reid stopped.
"Four."
Four.
Exactly the answer I had feared.
He turned toward me.
"She isn't mine."
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
"Then why is she calling you Daddy?"
Reid looked down at the little girl clinging to him.
Then back at me.
"Because she thinks I look like him."
I stared at him.
"Like who?"
His voice dropped.
"Miles."
The name hit me so hard I forgot to breathe.
Miles.
Reid's younger brother.
---
Who is June — and what happened to Miles?
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