Part 3The Day I Became A Secret Mother

I didn't go back to my parents' house. Instead, I drove to the address listed on Milo’s birth certificate.

It was a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac on the wealthier side of town. The townhouses were new, with manicured lawns and double-car garages. A sleek black SUV was parked in the driveway.

I sat in my car for thirty minutes, watching the front door.

Eventually, a man walked out. He was in his mid-thirties, wearing a designer grey jacket and a heavy gold watch that caught the afternoon sun. He carried a little boy on his hip.

I got out of my car and closed the door.

The man stopped when he saw me. He didn't look startled. Instead, a slow, mocking smile spread across his face.

"Naomi," he said, adjusting the toddler on his hip. "You got here faster than I thought you would."

"Marcus Brody?" I asked.

"The one and only," he said smoothly. He set the boy down on the grass, letting him play with a small toy truck.

"The marriage license," I said, stepping closer. "The birth certificate. How did you pull this off?"

Marcus leaned back against the hood of his SUV, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one, taking a slow drag before blowing the smoke over my head.

"The paperwork is real. The signatures are notarized. If you want to argue with the state database, be my guest. But right now, on paper, you're my wife. And that's my son."

"I wasn't even in the country when that license was signed," I spat.

"Then go prove that to your immigration officers," he sneered. "Go tell them your whole family is a bunch of liars. See how fast they cancel your visa. I don't care. But I'll make you a deal. You want to go to London? Great. Sponsor my visa. Take us with you. Or, if you want me to disappear, pay me. I know what they're paying you over there. You can afford it."

I had never felt such a pure, visceral disgust for another human being. "You are completely delusional."

Marcus’s smile vanished, his eyes turning cold. "Don't get cute with me, Naomi. Your sister—" He caught himself, stopping mid-sentence.

"My sister what?" I demanded.

The two-year-old boy on the grass suddenly looked up. He had Audrey’s wide, doe-like eyes and a head of soft brown curls. He stared at me for a long moment, then toddled over, reaching his small, dirt-stained hands toward my jeans.

"Mommy," he chirped. "Mommy, hold."

The word felt like a physical blow. I flinched, stepping back. "Don't—don't call me that."

The boy’s face puckered, his lower lip trembling.

Marcus laughed, a dry, ugly sound. "See? Even the kid knows his mother. Who is a judge going to believe? You, or your own son?"

"We’re doing a DNA test," I said, my voice shaking with rage.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"We're going to a clinic. Right now," I pointed at the boy. "If he isn't mine, you're going to sign whatever paperwork my lawyer drafts to clear my name, and then you're going to rot in a cell."

He stared at me for a few seconds, measuring my resolve. Then, he shrugged. "Fine. Let's go. But don't say I didn't warn you."

Three days later, I was back at the county testing center.

I had barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that little boy’s face, calling me a name I had never earned.

Marcus was already in the waiting room, holding Milo, who was fast asleep against his shoulder. He looked entirely unbothered.

The technician called my name and handed me the sealed envelope.

I tore it open, my chest aching with tension. My eyes skipped down to the final bolded line of the report.

The biological relationship between the tested parties, Naomi Pendleton and Milo Brody, is confirmed.

My vision blurred. The room spun.

No. No, no, no. This is impossible.

Marcus leaned over my shoulder, catching sight of the paper. He let out a low, satisfied whistle. "Well, look at that. Mother of the year."