We were twenty-six again.

Standing beside the lake.

Planning a future that never happened.

His voice came quietly.

“Claire?”

I wanted to answer.

I couldn’t.

A resident interrupted.

“Dr. Mercer, we need to proceed.”

Nate’s expression changed immediately.

Whatever he felt disappeared behind years of medical training.

He stepped toward the table.

“Understood. Let’s focus.”

The anesthesiologist leaned over me.

I could feel myself slipping toward unconsciousness.

Before everything went dark, Nate’s eyes moved toward the monitor displaying the babies’ heart rates.

For one terrifying second, a thought entered my mind.

What if he finds out?

Then the room vanished.

Two Tiny Cries

I woke to silence.

That frightened me.

My eyes opened slowly.

A nurse noticed immediately.

“Claire? You’re awake.”

My throat felt dry.

I tried to speak.

“Babies?”

She smiled.

“They’re here.”

Tears filled my eyes.

“Both?”

“Both.”

A breath escaped me that felt as though I had been holding it for five years.

The nurse explained that my daughter and son were premature and had been moved to the neonatal intensive care unit.

They were small.

They needed help.

But they were stable.

I covered my face.

For the first time that night, I allowed myself to cry.

Then I heard a familiar voice near the doorway.

“Could I speak with her?”

My entire body went still.

Nate.

The nurse looked at me.

I nodded reluctantly.

He entered alone.

Without the surgical mask, he looked older than the man I remembered.

There were faint lines around his eyes now.

His hair was slightly shorter.

But it was still Nate.

He stopped several feet from the bed.

“You scared everyone tonight.”

I looked toward the window.

“Thank you for saving them.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

Finally he said:

“You don’t owe me thanks. It was my job.”

I nodded.

Neither of us knew what to say next.

Then he asked the question I had feared.

“Where is their father?”

I looked back at him.

“Not here.”

His expression tightened.

“Does he know what happened?”

“No.”

“Should someone contact him?”

I swallowed.

“No.”

Nate studied me for several seconds.

Then he nodded.

“All right.”

He turned toward the door.

I thought the conversation was finished.

It wasn’t.

The Question He Couldn’t Ignore

Two days later, I was allowed to visit the NICU.

My daughter, Lucy, was sleeping inside one incubator.

My son, Miles, rested nearby.

They were unbelievably small.

But they were alive.

That was enough.

I placed my fingertips against the clear wall.

“Mommy’s here.”

Someone stopped behind me.

I didn’t need to turn around.

Nate.

He walked slowly toward the incubators.

His attention settled on Miles.

Then Lucy.

Something changed in his expression.

I knew why.

The Mercer family had a distinctive feature.

A tiny crescent-shaped birthmark behind the right ear.

Nate had one.

So did his father.

So had his grandfather.

And Miles had been born with the same mark.

Nate stared at it.

Then he looked at me.

“Claire.”

My stomach tightened.

“Don’t.”

His voice dropped.

“How old are they?”

I almost laughed.

“You delivered them. You know exactly how old they are.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Silence stretched between us.

He calculated.

Five years since our breakup.

My pregnancy timeline.

Their conception.

Everything.

His face slowly lost its color.

“Are they mine?”

I stared through the glass at my children.

For years, I had imagined this moment.

Sometimes I imagined screaming.

Sometimes I imagined walking away.

Sometimes I imagined telling him everything Patricia had done.

But standing inside that quiet hospital room, I suddenly felt exhausted.

So I told him the truth.

“Yes.”

Nate stepped backward.

He looked at Lucy.

Then Miles.

Then back at me.

“I have children?”

“You have twins.”

He pressed one hand against the edge of a chair.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”