CHAPTER 1 — THE EMPTY CHAIR

I gave birth to our son without my husband there.

His phone had been off for five hours.

When he finally entered my hospital room, he was carrying a four-year-old girl I had never seen.

She wore his jacket.

She knew his name.

And when he tried to put her down, she clung to his neck and cried,

“Daddy, please don’t leave me again.”

I looked at my husband and asked, “Who is she?”

He hesitated too long.

So I asked the question that scared me more.

“How long have you known about her?”

Reid lowered his eyes.

“Three weeks.”

We had been married six years.

And suddenly, I wasn’t sure I knew the man who had just walked through that door.

Five hours earlier, I had still been defending him.

“He’ll be here,” I told the nurse.

A contraction tightened across my abdomen so hard I had to close my eyes.

Nurse Callie waited for it to pass.

“Do you want me to call someone else, Maren?”

“No.”

My voice came out sharper than intended.

I looked at the chair beside the bed.

Reid’s chair.

The one he had pulled close when we arrived at the hospital that afternoon.

He had kissed my forehead and said, “I’m not leaving this room unless you throw me out.”

Then, shortly after eight, his phone rang.

I watched his expression shift.

“What happened?” I asked.

He was already grabbing his coat.

“Family emergency.”

“What kind?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Another contraction started.

Reid returned to the bed and took my hand.

“I need twenty minutes.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Reid.”

He bent until our foreheads touched.

“Twenty minutes. I promise.”

Those were his last words before he disappeared.

Twenty minutes became an hour.

Then two.

By midnight, his calls went straight to voicemail.

By one in the morning, my labor had progressed too far to pretend this was normal.

My mother arrived with her coat over her pajamas.

One glance at the empty chair told her everything.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

She didn’t criticize him.

That somehow made it worse.

At 2:46 a.m., my son was born.

Seven pounds, four ounces.

Dark hair.

Ten fingers.

Ten toes.

Perfect.

The doctor placed him on my chest.

Everyone expected happy tears.

I cried.

But beneath the joy was something raw and ugly.

I kept staring at that chair.

I had imagined Reid cutting the cord.

Crying.

His face when he heard our son’s first breath.

Instead, my mother held one hand while a nurse held the other.

When they asked his name, I whispered, “Theo.”

The name Reid and I had chosen together on a rainy Sunday three months earlier.

Theo Shaw.

Our son.

Only one of us had been there to meet him.

By the time the room quieted, dawn was paling the windows.

Mom had gone downstairs for coffee.

Theo slept against my chest.

I was too exhausted to stay angry.

Then the door opened.

Reid stood there.

For half a second, relief hit so hard I almost cried again.

Then I noticed the child in his arms.

She was tiny.

Brown hair tangled against one cheek.

Pink sneakers.

A faded backpack hung from Reid’s shoulder.

And she was wrapped in his navy jacket.

Reid looked wrecked.

His hair was damp with sweat.

Dried blood marked one cuff, though I couldn’t tell whose.

“Maren—”

The girl stirred.

Her eyes opened.

She looked at Reid.

Then tightened both arms around his neck.

“Daddy?”

The word knocked the air from me.

Reid froze.

The girl’s bottom lip trembled.

“Please don’t leave me again.”

My fingers tightened around Theo’s blanket.

Reid whispered, “June…”

He knew her name.

That hurt almost as much as Daddy.

“Who is she?”

Reid looked at Theo.

For one terrible second, his face crumpled.

He had missed his son’s birth.

And now he stood beside my bed holding another child.

“Maren, I can explain.”

“How long have you known her?”

He hesitated.

Wrong answer.

“How long?”

“Three weeks.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Three weeks.

Not tonight.

Not an accident.

Not some stranger he had helped on the road.

Three weeks.

I stared at the girl.

She looked about four.

Four years ago, Reid and I were already living together.

Four years ago, we were planning our wedding.

The math came together before I could stop it.

I looked back at him.

“Put her down.”

June tightened her arms around him.

Reid swallowed.

“She’s scared.”

“So am I.”

“Maren—”

“Take her outside.”

His expression shifted.

Not anger.

Pain.

That almost made me hate him more.

He stepped back.

June buried her face against his shoulder.

As he reached the door, I asked one more question.

“How old is she?”

Reid stopped.

“Four.”

Four.

Exactly what I feared.

He turned toward me.

“She isn’t mine.”

I laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

“Then why is she calling you Daddy?”

Reid looked at the little girl clinging to him.

Then back at me.

“Because she thinks I look like him.”

I stared.

“Like who?”

His voice dropped.

“Miles.”

The name hit so hard I forgot to breathe.

Miles.

Reid’s younger brother.

The brother we had buried three years ago.