Five years.
Jean was not an accident that derailed his plans.
Jean was a secret he managed.
But here is the part that truly broke something in me.
Denise had two children—a boy, seven years old, named Malik, and a girl, four years old, named Jasmine.
I stared at those names until they blurred.
Malik was Edwin’s son. I was almost certain.
I called Edwin’s number. Still disconnected.
I contacted Patrick, who finally answered and immediately said, “Camille, I can’t.”
“Did you know?” I asked. My voice was so flat it scared me.
A long pause.
“Cam…”
“Did you know?”
He hung up.
That was my answer.
I cried that night. Really cried. Ugly, gasping, the kind of grief that knows it’s finally being let out after being held too long.
Roslin sat next to me on the couch without saying a word. Just kept her hand on my back.
Then the next morning, I got up, dropped Jean at daycare, and went to work because that was what I did now. That was who I was becoming.
By the time Jean turned three, I had closed seventeen real estate transactions. Beverly Holloway promoted me to senior agent and gave me a commission bump that made my hands shake in the good way this time.
I moved out of Roslin’s guest room into a two-bedroom apartment I paid for entirely by myself. I chose yellow curtains deliberately, in honor of hers.
I did not contact Edwin. I did not contact Denise.
Continued on the next page
