Then came the autumn afternoon that reopened every scar. Jacob and I were leaving a downtown farmer’s market, our hands sticky with apple juice, when I heard my name. “Claire?” I turned, and there stood Mark—older, familiar, his hand tightly wrapped around Emily’s. They looked like a picture-perfect couple, but Mark wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the small boy stepping out from behind me.
Jacob clutched his toy truck, staring curiously at the strangers. Mark’s face turned deathly pale. His grip on Emily faltered. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. He wasn’t seeing a child—he was seeing himself. The same eyes. The same unmistakable expression. In that instant, I knew he understood everything.
Emily followed his gaze, confusion flickering across her face. “Mark?” she asked. But he couldn’t answer. He finally looked at me, fear and regret colliding in his eyes. “How old is he?” he whispered. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to. “Four,” I replied. The truth hung between us like a verdict.
