Chapter 8: The Call From Portland
I picked it up.
"Is this Thomas Calloway?" The voice was male.
Measured.
Careful in the way of someone who had rehearsed what they were going to say.
"Who is this?"
A short pause.
"My name is Paul Renner.
I think you know who I am."
Maya was watching my face.
I turned slightly away from her and kept my voice level.
"How did you get this number?"
"Elena gave it to me," he said.
"A long time ago.
I held onto it."
"Elena has been gone for two years."
"I know." Another pause.
"I'm sorry for your loss.
I mean that."
"What do you want, Mr.
Renner?"
"I'd like to talk.
In person, if possible.
I've been thinking about reaching out for a while.
I wasn't sure it was the right thing to do.
But I have a daughter and two sons out there who don't know I exist, and I—"
"They have a father," I said.
The line was quiet for a moment.
"I understand that," he said.
"I'm not trying to take anything from you.
I just want to—"
"You walked out on them when they were babies." I kept my voice even.
"You left Elena alone with three children under the age of four.
You disappeared for years.
And now you want to talk."
"Things were complicated back then.
I was—"
"I'm not interested in the explanation," I said.
"Those are my children.
I adopted them legally.
I have raised them.
I have been at every school play and every doctor's appointment and every bad dream at two in the morning for the past eight years.
You don't get to call this number and ask for a conversation like it's nothing."
"I'm not saying it's nothing." His voice tightened slightly.
"I'm their biological father.
I have rights."
There it was.
"You can speak to my attorney," I said.
"Don't call this number again."
I ended the call.
Maya was still standing beside me.
She had heard enough — my half of it, at least.
"Was that him?" she asked.
"Yes."
She was quiet for a moment.
"What does he want?"
"He says he wants to meet you.
All three of you."
She absorbed that.
Her expression didn't change much, but her shoulders pulled in slightly.
"Do we have to?"
"No," I said.
"Not if you don't want to.
Not without a lot more conversation first."
"Does he know about Mom?
That she's gone?"
"He says he does."
Maya looked at the phone in my hand.
"He waited two years."
"Yes, he did."
"That's not someone who was desperate to find us," she said.
"That's someone who waited until it was convenient."
Twelve years old.
I thought about that sometimes — how she had gotten so old inside without me noticing.
"I'm going to talk to a lawyer this week," I said.
"Just to understand where things stand legally.
You don't need to worry about this."
"I'm not worried," she said.
"I trust you."
She said it simply, the way she said most things.
No performance in it.
I set the phone face-down on the counter.
"I'm going to call your brother and sister," I said.
"They need to know what's happening.
All of it."
Maya nodded.
"Liam's going to be angry."
"Probably."
"Sophie's going to cry."
"Probably."
"What about you?" she asked.
I looked at her.
"I don't know yet," I said honestly.
"I think I'm still figuring out what I feel."
She nodded like that was a reasonable answer.
Then she went to the refrigerator and opened it.
"I'm going to make lunch," she said.
"You should eat something."
I almost said I wasn't hungry.
But she was already pulling things out with the quiet efficiency of someone who had decided the conversation was over for now and the next practical thing needed doing.
I sat down at the island.
She made two sandwiches and set one in front of me without asking what I wanted on it.
It was exactly what I would have chosen myself.
That evening, after dinner, my phone buzzed again.
Same Portland number.
I didn't pick up.
But thirty minutes later, a text came through from a different number entirely.
*Mr.
Calloway.
My name is Rebecca Renner.
Paul is my husband.
I think there are things you deserve to know about why he really reached out.
Please call me.
May you like
I'm sorry for contacting you this way.
I didn't know what else to do.*
