“I don’t know.”
That was the most honest answer of the night.
The lie became easier than the conversation.
Every week he waited made the next confession harder.
Then Maren began needing him.
She needed help moving.
Her boyfriend left.
Her mother was gone.
She had nobody nearby.
Adrian tried compressing twenty-five missing years into four months.
He visited.
Bought groceries.
Paid one month’s rent from his personal bonus.
Assembled the crib in her apartment.
Went to one prenatal appointment when she was afraid to go alone.
And every time, he told me he was somewhere else.
I opened the folder.
Receipts.
Parking stubs.
Maren’s birth certificate.
A DNA test.
Every piece of the parallel life I had sensed but never understood.
I closed it.
“I need you to leave.”
Adrian looked up.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded slowly.
That mattered.
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t accuse me of overreacting.
He packed a small bag and stayed with his brother.
For ten days, we barely spoke except about practical matters.
My blood pressure.
The baby’s appointments.
Bills.
Our dog.
On the third day, Maren texted me.
I nearly deleted it.
Instead, I read:
