He stepped in slowly, like he expected me to change my mind any second. My apartment was small, but it was mine—peaceful, controlled, safe.
Derek stood in the middle of it, looking like wreckage.
“You can sleep on the couch. You leave at sunrise.”
He nodded quickly. “Thank you.”
I did not want gratitude from him.
We barely spoke. Eventually, he said, “You look good.”
“Do not do that.”
“What?”
“Talk to me like we are friends.”
Silence.
Then: “I am sorry.”
“For what? Pick one.”
“For how I left. For everything.”
I had imagined that apology for years. It did not feel the way I thought it would.
That night, I lay awake listening.
Around midnight, he spoke through my door again.
“I just wanted to say thank you.”
“Go to sleep.”
Then softly: “I am sorry, Claire. More than you know.”
I did not answer.
When I woke up, it was too quiet.
The couch was empty. Blanket folded. Derek was gone.
Relief hit me hard.
Then I saw it.
A baby carrier.
I froze.
Then the baby moved.
A tiny arm shifted under a pale blue blanket.
“No…”
I rushed over. A baby boy. Six or seven months old. Quiet. Watching me.
Beside him was a folded note.
But before I opened it, I saw the birthmark.
A small crescent on his cheek.
Same place. Same shape as mine.
My whole body went cold.
I opened the note.
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