I hesitated.
Then I told him the truth.
“Because my father has talked about your family for years.
If he knew Michael’s last name, I was afraid he’d make our relationship about money, status, or what it could do for him.
I wanted my parents to meet Michael as the man I love, not as a Hastings.”
Robert considered that quietly.
“That was probably wise.”
I laughed despite myself.
“My timing could have been better.”
“No,” he said.
“Their behavior could have been better.”
My phone vibrated again.
Dad.
I turned it face down.
A minute later, Mom called.
Then Dad again.
I did not answer.
Robert did not tell me what to do.
He simply poured more tea.
Michael arrived forty minutes later.
I heard the front door before I saw him.
Fast footsteps crossed the hall, and then he appeared in the library doorway looking as if he had broken every speed limit between Chicago and Indiana.
He came straight to me.
“Are you okay?”
That was his first question.
Not what did they say.
Not did you tell them my name.
Not does anyone know.
Are you okay?
I stood, and he wrapped both arms around me.
For the first time that night, I cried.
Not because I had nowhere to go anymore.
Because the contrast was unbearable.
My father had looked at my pregnancy and seen disgrace.
Michael looked at me and saw someone he needed to protect.
After I calmed down, he crouched beside my chair and picked up the ultrasound envelope.
“Did you get to show them?”
“No.”
He looked toward his father.
Robert’s expression hardened.
Michael opened the envelope carefully and smiled at the image as though he had never seen it before, even though he had a copy saved at home.
“There you are,” he whispered.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, my sister sent a single sentence.
Dad knows Michael is Robert Hastings’s son.
I showed Michael.
He read it, leaned back, and exhaled.
“How?”
“Small town,” I said.
The answer came a moment later.
My sister called.
I finally picked up.
“Laura?” Her voice was low.
“Please don’t hang up.”
“I’m not going to.”
“What is happening?”
