The ground beneath me shifted violently, and I was sure I was going to collapse.
“No,” I choked out. “No, he isn’t. He can’t be. That’s… No!”
“I didn’t even get to tell him,” she whispered. “I found out that I was pregnant a week before he disappeared from the face of the earth. I only learned about his death recently. I ran into someone who knew us both, a woman from his office. She’d introduced us. And she told me. I didn’t even know where he was buried until she told me. We live above the supermarket. In a tiny apartment.”
Her words hit me like fists slamming against my body. Each one felt harder than the last. James, my James, had lived a life I knew nothing about.
“You’re lying,” I said, my voice cracking.
“I wish I were,” she said. “If I were, my child would have the possibility of meeting his father.”
There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.
“He never told me about you. If I’d known…” she trailed off. “Look, I was so angry at him for leaving us. He told me that he had work commitments to see through, and once he got his promotion, he would come back to me. And when I found out I was pregnant, I was let go at work. I’ve been relying on my savings. I wanted James to help. Even in death. I thought taking the flowers and selling them would… it sounds terrible, but it felt like he owed us that much. I’m sorry.”
For a moment, we just stood there, staring at each other.
I saw the desperation in her eyes, the raw truth she carried in her trembling hands. And what about the baby?
Finally, I spoke.
“Keep the flowers,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue. “Just take care of him.”
Her face crumpled again, but I turned and walked away before I could see her tears.
That night, I just couldn’t sleep. There were hundreds of questions running through my mind. Questions with no answers. James was gone. There would be no confrontation, no explanation, no resolution.
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