Eventually my attorney learned the package had been logged by Blake’s legal office but never personally delivered to him.
His senior counsel had considered it part of what they described as an emotional reconciliation strategy and filed it with the divorce correspondence.
By then I was twenty weeks pregnant.
I stopped trying.
I moved to Chicago to be close to my mother.
The boys were born early but healthy.
And I built a life around them.
Not a glamorous life by Blake’s standards.
A good one.
I returned to research.
I consulted for universities and environmental firms.
Over time, several patents connected to my original work began paying royalties.
I was not a billionaire.
I also was not the broken, penniless woman Blake imagined sitting beside him on that airplane.
Two hours after we reached my house, the doorbell rang.
I knew who it was before I opened the door.
Blake stood on the porch without a driver, assistant or security detail.
For once, there was no audience for his confidence.
“You should have called,” I said.
“I did.
Six times.”
“My phone is inside.”
He looked past me, but the boys were in the family room with my mother.
“I need to know if they are mine.”
“They are.”
His eyes closed.
Just for a second.
When he opened them, they were wet.
I had seen Blake furious, triumphant, drunk, exhausted and terrified of losing his company.
I had almost never seen him cry.
“All three?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Despite myself, I nearly smiled.
“Biology, Blake.”
He flinched.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserve far more than that.”
He nodded.
Then he asked the question I had known was coming.
“Why did you not tell me?”
I stared at him.
“I did.”
His head lifted.
“No, you did not.”
“I called.
Your number had changed.
I emailed.
Your assistant redirected me to counsel.
My lawyer contacted yours.
And I sent medical confirmation to your legal office.”
Blake’s face hardened with disbelief.
“I never received anything.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my attorney tracked the delivery after your office stopped responding.”
