Chapter 4: Not His Problem
Marcus lived twenty minutes from the hospital.
I drove there without thinking about the route.
My hands knew the way.
I'd made that drive dozens of times over eleven years — for football on his television, for barbecues in his garden, for the kind of easy friendship that doesn't require a reason.
He opened the door before I knocked.
He was dressed, which told me he hadn't been asleep.
He'd been waiting.
"Come in," he said.
"I'd rather do this here."
He leaned against the doorframe.
He looked the same as he always had — broad shoulders, easy posture, the kind of face that made people trust him quickly.
I had trusted him quickly.
That had been my mistake.
"She told you," he said.
"She told me tonight.
In the delivery room."
Something moved across his face.
Not guilt.
Closer to calculation.
"How is she?"
"Don't."
He raised both hands slightly.
"I'm just asking—"
"You told her it wasn't your problem, Marcus.
When she came to you and told you there was a chance that baby was yours, you told her to handle it.
So don't ask me how she is."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he straightened up.
"Look.
What happened between us — that was a mistake.
It was over.
She knew it was over."
"She was pregnant."
"She was married to you.
The odds were—"
"The odds." I looked at him.
"You told a pregnant woman that her child might be yours and your response was to talk about odds and walk away."
"I didn't walk away.
I was honest with her.
I told her the situation was hers to manage."
"You were honest." The word felt wrong in my mouth.
"You were honest."
"Daniel—"
"How long were you sleeping with my wife?"
He didn't flinch.
That was the thing I would remember later — that he didn't flinch.
"Eight months, give or take."
"Give or take."
"I'm not going to stand here and perform remorse for you.
It happened.
It's done.
If the baby is mine, then we deal with that when we know.
But I'm not going to fall apart over a possibility."
I looked at him for a long moment.
At the man I had known for eleven years.
At the face I had trusted.
"You came to my wedding," I said.
"Yes."
"You gave a speech.
You said I was the best man you knew."
He looked away for the first time.
Down at the step between us.
"I was twenty-nine.
People say things."
"You held my son in a car park because we couldn't work out the buckle."
"Daniel—"
"His name is Ethan.
He's twelve now.
He calls you Uncle Marcus."
Marcus said nothing.
"Does he know?" I asked.
"Does anyone know?"
"No.
No one knows."
"Claire's been carrying this alone for eight months."
"That was her choice."
The coldness in those four words was the clearest thing he'd said all night.
I heard it land and I let it sit there between us.
"I want you to stay away from my family," I said.
"From Claire.
From my boys.
From whatever this baby turns out to be.
I want you completely gone."
"That's fine," he said.
"That was always going to be the outcome."
"I know.
That's what makes it worse."
I turned and walked back to my car.
He didn't call after me.
I hadn't expected him to.
I sat in the driver's seat for a while without starting the engine.
The street was quiet.
A light was on in the house across the road.
Someone's ordinary evening, still intact.
My phone lit up.
Claire.
I watched it ring and go to voicemail.
Then a text from my eldest son, Ethan.
*Dad, we're all awake.
Nan said the baby came.
Is everything okay?*
I stared at the message.
Twelve years old and already reading the room from twenty miles away.
I typed back: *Baby's here.
She's healthy.
I'll be home soon.*
I didn't answer his question.
He would notice.
He always noticed.
I started the engine and pulled out into the empty road, and somewhere between Marcus's doorstep and the motorway on-ramp, I understood that the hardest part of the night was still ahead of me.
May you like
Not the confrontation I'd just had.
The one waiting at home, with five boys who loved their mother and had no idea their world had shifted.
