Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
He’s beautiful, achingly so, and a sharp pang slices through my chest. My heart hurts with a hollow, unspoken dream—what would our child have looked like? Would they have had my pale green eyes, or Max’s stormy blue? Would their hair have curled wild and soft like this child? The questions swarm, each one a shard of a life I’ll never have, and tears burn behind my eyes. I bite my lip, hard, refusing to let them fall again.
A woman steps into the doorway behind him, her blonde hair catching the light like spun gold, and her smile is radiant. Max’s wife. My gaze falls on her, and a sharp pain claws at my insides. Look at her. How she glows with happiness. She’s everything I’m not—vibrant, loved, the centerpiece of a life I was meant to live.
For a moment, the anger flares and burns for the unfairness of it all.
But her eyes meet mine, warm and unguarded, and the rising fury falters. I can’t hate her. She’s done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve my anger. It’s not her fault. She was not even in the scene when Dad lied. It’s not her fault that Max and I were torn apart. The realization is a cold wave that douses the fire of my anger. It leaves a deeper ache in its wake, but I won’t hurt her, won’t touch the perfect family she’s built with him, no matter how much it stings.
I turn to Max, my throat tight, the words scraping out like glass. “You have a beautiful family.”
He looks at me, a flicker of something raw passing through his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, his voice low. Then, quieter, like a confession, “You’re my family as well.”
My breath catches, his words a blade twisting in my chest. I stare into his eyes, and the urge to tell him the truth surges again, desperate and reckless. He’s not my family—not my half-brother, not my anything—because Dad lied.
Max doesn’t know, and the weight of that secret presses against my ribs, like a bird trapped in a cage begging to be freed. To fly free in the blue sky. It would be so easy to say it, to let the poor bird out, and change everything. But I can’t. Not now, not when that beautiful, blameless child is standing in the doorway.
I want him so badly it’s a physical pain, a yearning that’s lived in me for fourteen years, but he’s not mine. He’s hers, and it’s time I accepted it. My eyes hold his, searching for a trace of the boy I loved, but all I see is the man he’s become, and the truth that he’s out of reach.
Max’s gaze is a weight, heavy with something I can’t name, and it pulls at me, threatening to unravel the fragile control I’m clinging to. The kitchen’s bright light feels too harsh, exposing every crack in my composure, every ache I’ve tried to hide. Then his hand lifts, settling gently on my shoulder, his touch warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and it’s a spark that could ignite me if I let it.
“Tell me what I can do for you,” he says, his voice rough with sincerity. “Anything, Amelia.”
My throat tightens, the words I want to say—Tell me you still feel it, tell me I’m not alone in this—choking me. Instead, I force a smile.
“You’ve already done enough by coming here,” I murmur, dodging his offer. “I’m fine. Really.” The lie tastes bitter, but I push on. I must shift the focus away from my crumbling heart. “I’m just happy you’re doing so well, Max. I’m proud of you, and I hope you keep shining.”
His eyes darken, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “I feel like I haven’t been there for you at all,” he says, his voice quieter now, laced with regret. “I’m so sorry.”
I nod, my chest aching at his words, their double meaning slicing through me. He’s apologizing for more than just today—for the years of silence, for walking away when I begged him to stay, to be my half-brother if nothing else. I understood then why he couldn’t, why being near me would’ve hurt too much, just like it hurts me now. “I get it,” I say softly, my gaze dropping to the counter, unable to hold his. “It would’ve been… painful.”
Our eyes meet again, locked in a moment that feels like it could swallow time. It’s too much, too raw, and I’m trembling under the weight of it. But before I can break, his son comes forward.
Those gray eyes—big, bright, and impossibly cute—turn to me, shy but curious, and his small hand slides into his father’s. “Is this Aunt Amelia?” he asks, his voice high and clear, like a bell ringing through the fog.
My heart squeezes, a fresh ache blooming at the sound of his voice, so pure it could break me. He’s an angel, this boy, and the thought of him calling me aunt is a bittersweet sting.