The Boy My Husband Said Died Was Living Fourteen Miles Away

Chapter 2 - What Nathan Did Every Tuesday

I waited for Nathan in the kitchen that night.

Oliver was asleep upstairs.

The black gym bag sat on the table between us.

Nathan came through the door at ten twelve.

He saw the bag.

Then he saw me.

And stopped.

I placed the drawing beside it.

His face collapsed.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Finally, I said, “Say his name.”

Nathan closed the door behind him.

“Claire—”

“Say his name.”

His eyes filled.

“Samuel.”

Hearing it from him after nine years nearly destroyed me.

I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.

“You knew.”

Nathan lowered his head.

“For eight months.”

“You knew our son was alive for eight months.”

“I was trying to figure out how to tell you.”

“You had thirty-two Tuesdays.”

He flinched.

“Thirty-two times you came home, ate dinner with me and Oliver, kissed him goodnight, and drove across town to visit his brother.”

“I know.”

“No. You don’t.”

My voice broke.

“You watched me visit Samuel’s memorial every year.”

Nathan began crying.

“I know.”

“You watched me light candles on his birthday.”

“I know.”

“You watched me blame myself because I thought my body failed him.”

“I know!”

His shout startled both of us.

Nathan covered his face.

“I know, Claire.”

For the first time, I saw how exhausted he looked.

But I had no sympathy left.

“Why?”

He sat down heavily.

“Because when Rebecca called me, I thought it was a scam.”

“She called you?”

“She found me after Diane died. She’d been afraid of her for years.”

Nathan swallowed.

“She sent me a photograph. I went to the house expecting a lie.”

“And?”

“He opened the door.”

Nathan looked at the drawing.

“He looked exactly like Oliver.”

I closed my eyes.

“I asked Rebecca for a DNA test. It came back at 99.99 percent.”

My stomach twisted.

“So instead of calling me, you bought him cereal.”

Nathan looked ashamed.

“He didn’t know us. Rebecca was his mother in every way that mattered to him. She told him his biological parents had been unable to care for him.”

I stared at him.

“And you decided I was unable to handle the truth?”

“No.”

“That is exactly what you decided.”

Nathan stood.

“There was more.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Of course there was.”

He reached into the gym bag and removed an envelope.

Inside was a copy of Samuel’s original hospital record.

At the bottom was Nathan’s signature.

My eyes locked onto it.

“What is this?”

Nathan did not answer.

I looked up.

“What did you sign?”

His face was gray.

“A transfer consent.”

The room went silent.

“You knew?”

“No. Not what it really was.”

“You signed away our son?”

“My mother told me Samuel was dying.”

Nathan’s voice cracked.

“She said the doctors needed permission to move him to a neonatal hospice unit. You were unconscious. I was twenty-six, terrified, and I signed whatever they put in front of me.”

I looked at the paper again.

The facility name had been covered by correction fluid in the copy.

Nathan continued.

“Years later, I stopped thinking about it. Then Rebecca showed me the original.”

“What did it say?”

He whispered:

“Private custodial transfer.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

Nathan had not knowingly given Samuel away.

But someone had used his signature to make it happen.

And if Rebecca had not taken my baby first, Samuel might have disappeared forever.

Then Nathan said the words that changed everything again.

“Claire, Diane didn’t do this alone.”