“How old are you, Emma?”
She frowned.
“Forty.”
Stephen went completely still.
His eyes moved from Emma to me.
Then back.
“Alana.”
His voice changed.
“We broke up forty years ago.”
“I know.”
He took a slow breath.
“I don’t want to assume anything.”
His fingers tightened around the chair.
“And I know I probably have no right to ask this after all these years.”
Then he looked at Emma again.
“But could she be my daughter?”
The room went silent.
Emma stared at me.
And suddenly the secret I had carried for four decades was no longer mine alone.
“I found out I was pregnant several weeks after I left you,” I said.
Stephen’s face lost its color.
“I was already pregnant when I walked away.”
His hand dropped from the chair.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Because I had been angry.
Because I had been proud.
Because I had convinced myself he had betrayed me.
And because admitting I might have been wrong seemed impossible.
“I thought you wouldn’t want to hear from me.”
My voice became quieter.
“I thought you would dismiss everything.”
I swallowed.
“But that doesn’t excuse it.”
I looked at Stephen.
“I should have given you the opportunity to decide for yourself.”
Emma was staring at me now.
