Five Years Later – Spring Creek Children’s Park
“Aiden! Stop throwing rocks into the fountain!” I shouted for the third time, only to see the twins already tumbling into the tulip beds.
As I moved to intervene, a figure under the wisteria arbor caught my eye—Ryan Howard, the man claiming to be the triplets’ biological father, recording the chaos with a phone. His gaze through those designer glasses reminded me of a coyote stalking prey.
“Planning another social media sob story?” I stepped between him and the kids.
The wind chimes Leah had loved tinkled above the swings. Last week, this Wall Street lawyer had barged into our lives with DNA tests and carefully edited “bonding videos,” demanding to take the kids back to Manhattan.
Ryan removed his tortoiseshell glasses (probably worth half my salary) with shaky hands.
“We need to talk about Leah’s medical records—” His voice cracked. That’s when I noticed the moonstone ring on his left hand—an exact match to Leah’s. Memories flooded back: the emerald necklace missing from her belongings, the unanswered call labeled “RH” in her dying moments.
“You have no idea what she endured!” My fist slammed the picnic table, spilling lemonade.
The kids froze. Little Aiden quietly handed me his asthma inhaler—the preemie who still struggled to breathe sometimes.
From his crocodile-skin briefcase, Ryan produced a yellowed letter in Leah’s swirling script: “Dear Thomas, If you’re reading this, I’ve made the most selfish choice…” Spring sunlight turned harsh as I realized the truth—her “ski accident” hysterectomy had actually been a desperate bargain to save the babies.
