Chapter 3 - THE LETTER AND THE FIRST HIDDEN ACCOUNT
The next morning, Evelyn met me at her office downtown.
She was a composed woman in her late fifties, with silver hair cut just below her jaw and a way of listening that made people reveal more than they intended. I had chosen her years ago because she had helped me protect money I had inherited from my father before marrying Dominic.
Unlike most people around the Moretti family, Evelyn had never treated me as an extension of my husband.
She read the petition, then looked at me.
“Do you want to proceed immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Even if Dominic contests the divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to establish paternity before the baby is born?”
I looked toward the windows. Chicago was pale beneath a low ceiling of clouds, the streets shining from last night’s rain.
“I want the truth.”
“That can mean several things.”
“I want to know whether the baby is his. I want him to know. But I don’t want to be pulled back into that family because I’m pregnant.”
“You won’t be, unless you allow it.”
I turned to her.
“Can he take the baby from me?”
Evelyn’s expression changed—not dramatically, but enough to reassure me that she understood the fear beneath my question.
“No. Nothing happens that way. You are married, and the law recognizes Dominic as the presumptive father unless proven otherwise. Custody and parenting arrangements are separate matters, and they’re decided according to the child’s best interests. No one can simply remove your baby from you.”
I nodded, though the tightness in my chest remained.
“I don’t want a fight.”
“Then don’t turn this into one. Keep communication written. Don’t meet alone if you’re uncomfortable. And don’t make decisions based on what Margaret or Vanessa says. We’ll deal with facts.”
Facts.
The word steadied me.
Before leaving, Evelyn handed me a folder.
“There’s one more thing. Your separation agreement may involve assets held in a trust. I reviewed the preliminary records you sent. Some transfers were made from the Moretti family account into a private foundation six months ago.”
“Did Dominic authorize them?”
“His signature appears on the documents.”
“What foundation?”
“Moretti Family Outreach.”
I stared at the name.
“That sounds like one of Margaret’s charities.”
“It is. But the foundation was inactive until recently. The account now contains a considerable amount of money.”
“Why would he move money there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could it be hidden?”
“It could be an effort to shield assets, or it could be legitimate charitable planning. I’m not accusing anyone yet.”
I remembered Dominic’s study, his locked desk drawer, and the way he had once told me not to worry about finances because everything was already arranged.
At the time, I had been grateful.
Now every reassurance seemed to have a second meaning.
“Look into it,” I said.
“I will.”
When I returned to Clara’s apartment, a courier was waiting downstairs.
He handed me a large envelope.
There was no return address.
Inside was a single sheet of paper folded in half.
Emma, it read.
I know you won’t speak to me. I don’t blame you. But I need you to understand that I did not know about your pregnancy, and I did not ask Vanessa to come back into my life. Please read the letter enclosed.
A second envelope had been tucked behind the note.
The handwriting on it was Dominic’s.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I carried it upstairs and left it unopened on the kitchen counter.
It stayed there for two days.
During those two days, Dominic sent no more messages. Evelyn told me he had agreed to communicate through her. He had not challenged the divorce petition, but he had requested temporary contact regarding the pregnancy.
I didn’t know how to respond.
Part of me wanted him to fight—to insist that our marriage mattered, that the years between us had not been an illusion.
Another part hoped he would disappear completely, because his absence would be easier to understand than his presence.
On the third evening, I opened the envelope.
The letter was three pages long.
Emma,
There is no excuse for what I did. I know that. I spent years telling myself I was protecting you from my moods, my family, and the parts of myself I didn’t know how to explain. In reality, I was avoiding every conversation that might require me to be honest.
The hearing loss was real. The surgery helped. The doctors told me I had recovered enough to hear normally, but I didn’t tell anyone at home. At first, I was afraid. I had built my entire routine around silence, and I didn’t know how to step back into a marriage where I had already become absent.
Then I realized I could hear you without having to answer. I could listen to you moving through the house, speaking with my mother, asking if I needed anything. You never demanded more from me. You made it easy to remain hidden.
I stopped reading.
There it was again.
Not an excuse. An explanation.
But explanations did not restore the years they consumed.
I continued.
The truth is that I was ashamed. After the surgery, I heard my own voice and hated how weak it sounded. I heard the arguments between my mother and Gabriel about the company. I heard things I had spent years avoiding. Silence had protected me, and I chose it even after I no longer needed it.
You deserved a husband who spoke to you. I gave you a man who watched from the next room.
As for Vanessa, I have never been intimate with her. She returned to Chicago after her father became ill. My mother invited her to stay at the house because she said Vanessa needed support. I objected. My mother told me she was family and that I was being cold.
The pregnancy was announced before I could ask Vanessa about the father. She told my mother she had been abandoned by the man she was seeing. My mother assumed I would marry Vanessa if necessary because of the baby. I told her I would not.
I should have told you all of this. I should have defended you. I did neither.
At the bottom, he had written:
I don’t know whether you will ever forgive me. I’m not asking for that now. I’m asking for the opportunity to be truthful, even if the truth leaves me with nothing.
I folded the letter and placed it on the counter.
Clara watched me from the doorway.
“Do you believe him?”
“I believe he wrote it.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
“Will you see him?”
“I don’t know.”
That night, I woke with a dull ache low in my abdomen.
It wasn’t severe, but it frightened me enough to call the clinic. The nurse told me to come in if it continued. By morning, the ache had faded.
I went anyway.
The waiting room was quiet, filled with women reading magazines and couples speaking in whispers. I sat alone, one hand resting over my stomach, and tried not to feel the absence of the person who should have been beside me.
When the doctor finished the examination, she smiled gently.
“Everything looks normal.”
Relief loosened my shoulders.
“You’re measuring right on schedule. The baby is small, but healthy.”
I nodded.
“Can I ask something?”
“Of course.”
“If the father wants a test before the baby is born, is that possible?”
“There are noninvasive prenatal tests, but they’re not usually necessary unless there’s a medical reason or a legal dispute. Most couples wait until after delivery.”
“I may not be in a couple by then.”
May you like
The doctor studied me for a moment, then said, “Whatever happens between you and the father, make sure you’re surrounded by people who support you. Pregnancy is already a great deal to carry.”
Her words followed me out of the clinic.
