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The world around him seemed to fall away in a blur of heat and stillness. Emily Blake, he asked, already knowing the answer. Yes, the other girl said.
She was our mom. Jonathan’s heart thundered in his chest. His breath caught.
It wasn’t possible. Emily had never told him she was pregnant. They had separated suddenly, too many arguments, too much distance.
He had never once considered that there might have been something, or someone, left behind. He dropped to one knee, suddenly aware that his legs were trembling. How old are you two? he asked.
Five, they said in unison. And with that word, five, everything fell into place. Five and a half years since the divorce.
Five years since he’d walked away. Five years since he’d lost more than he realized. He looked at their faces again, at the curve of their cheeks, the shape of their eyes.
There was no denying it. They weren’t just her daughters. They were his.
Jonathan didn’t move for what felt like a full minute. The girl stood just a few feet away, watching him with curiosity and a hint of wariness, the way children do when they sense that an adult doesn’t quite know what to do next. His mind raced, trying to fit the impossible into something rational.
Emily had never called. Never written. Never said a word.
How could she have kept this from him? But more than that, how had he not noticed? Not suspected? In all the silence between them, there had been something deeper, something he’d chosen not to explore because it had hurt too much. Now the truth stood in front of him with matching eyes and tiny voices. He glanced down at the grave again, and for the first time since arriving, he really saw it.
The headstone was simple, modest, engraved with Emily’s full name and the words, Beloved Mother, Brave Heart. No mention of a husband. No mention of him.
The guilt hit him harder than he expected. And alongside it, a new fear crept in, what had these girls been told about him? Did they know who he was? He cleared his throat gently, trying to steady his voice. What are your names? The girl with the flowers stepped forward.
I’m Sarah. And that’s my sister, Sophie. He nodded slowly, repeating their names in his head like a prayer.
Sarah and Sophie, he said quietly. Those are beautiful names. Mommy picked them, Sophie said, still holding the folded paper tightly in her hand.
Jonathan gestured softly toward it. What’s that you’re holding? It’s a letter, she replied. We wrote it to Mommy.
Would you mind if I sat with you for a bit? He asked. The girls exchanged a quick glance and then both shrugged. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either.
He lowered himself to sit on the edge of the small concrete border surrounding the grave, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands or his eyes. The silence felt heavy, but not empty. I knew your mom, he said finally.
A long time ago. Sarah tilted her head. You were friends? Jonathan hesitated.
We were, more than that, once. We were married. Both girls looked up at him sharply, eyes wide.
Sophie blinked. You were our mommy’s husband? Yes, he said quietly. A long time ago.
Before you were born. They were silent, and he wondered if they were old enough to process what he had just told them. Then Sarah asked the question that made his stomach twist.
Why weren’t you with her? There it was, raw and simple. No judgment, just confusion. He didn’t know how to answer without telling them things they were too young to understand.
It’s complicated, he said gently. But I made mistakes. I didn’t know about you.
If I had, he swallowed hard. Things would’ve been different. Sarah didn’t respond right away, but Sophie looked down and whispered, we don’t have anyone else.
Jonathan looked at her, startled. What do you mean? She glanced at her sister, as if waiting for permission to continue. Then she said, mommy got sick.
She tried to stay strong for us, but she got tired. After she died, we stayed with Miss Diane, our neighbor. But she says she can’t take care of us much longer.
Jonathan felt something break inside him. These weren’t just two children mourning a parent. They were two children on the edge of being left behind.
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