Chapter 110: Hundred and Ten

The house was too quiet. Not the comforting quiet of Sunday mornings, when the smell of coffee would drift through the rooms and Noah would hum off-key to himself while drawing at the table. This was different. This was silence sharpened into an edge, silence that said more than words could.

It was weighing down on me.

Jacob’s silence.

He sat across from me at the table, his face half-hidden behind the newspaper, a mug of coffee cooling beside his hand. Every so often, he would flip a page, the crinkle of paper loud in the stillness. Noah swung his legs under his chair, telling us all about the tower he had built with his blocks, about how high it had been before it collapsed. His voice was bright, full of that boundless energy that belonged only to him. Normally, Jacob would nod, maybe smile, ruffle his hair. Today, he barely looked up.

“Mm,” he murmured once, not even glancing in Noah’s direction.

I forced a smile and asked Noah to show me later, my voice pitched too high, too cheerful. My hands wrapped tight around my own mug to keep from fidgeting. I hated this version of Jacob. Cold, withholding, punishing me with silence instead of shouting. At least shouting meant I could shout back. At least shouting meant there was something to fight against.

Now, there was nothing. Just his stillness, his refusal to look at me.

I couldn’t blame him for it. I had been so worried about Declan, so consumed with thoughts of him, his hurt, his worry, I had forgotten to think about Jacob. How this was affecting him. He really was Noah’s father in all ways that mattered. And he did love me. And even if our relationship was strained some days, and maybe we were in a rut, he had loved me so much through these years.

Yes, Declan’s blood ran through my son’s veins. But how could I deny Jacob his fatherhood? He had taught Noah how to ride a bike. He had taken him to every doctor’s appointment. He still sang him to sleep.

The fight replayed in my head anyway, still fresh and raw in my mind. I couldn’t stop hearing his voice last night, accusing, demanding, all of it rooted in the same old fear: Declan. Always Declan.

At work the next day, the silence continued, but in a different shape. Declan’s absence was its own kind of presence. On the first day, when his chair sat empty, I felt relief. It was easier not to see him, easier not to feel that tug in my chest every time he walked into the room. By the second day, I caught myself glancing at his office door, half expecting him to appear. By the third day, when his desk was still untouched, that relief tangled with something else I didn’t want to name. Disappointment. Worry. A sharp ache I tried to swallow down.

I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself it was better this way. But every time someone mentioned his name in passing, my chest tightened.

That night, after putting Noah to bed, I walked past the study and froze. Jacob’s voice came through the half-closed door. Low, bitter, muttering. I leaned closer without meaning to, my heart thudding. I could hear him and his therapist.

“...my fiance…shadow of another man…she loves him.” His tone was venomous, almost a growl. Then, clearer, sharper, “Noah is my son.”

I pressed my palm against the wall, steadying myself. His voice carried a weight I hadn’t heard before. Not jealousy, and not just anger, but something darker. The sound of a man who felt cornered. I backed away before he noticed me standing there, but the words clung to me, sharp and stinging in my chest.

Later, while folding Noah’s clothes, I tried to shake it off. His tiny shirts smelled faintly of soap, his socks balled into mismatched pairs he always managed to lose. The ordinary act of laundry should have grounded me, but then Noah looked up from where he sat on his bed, his stuffed bear tucked under his chin.

“Mommy?” he asked, his voice small but curious.

“Yes, love?”

“Is Uncle Declan coming back soon?”

The question sliced through me so fast I almost dropped the shirt in my hands. My mouth opened, but no words came. I forced myself to smile, brushing my hand through his hair, though my throat felt tight.

“What?”

He went back to looking at his bear. “I saw him last night, in the house, with you and Daddy.”

Fuck.

I pasted a smile on my face.

“Don’t worry about that, sweetheart. Just go to sleep.”

“Okay,” he said easily, already distracted, hugging his bear tighter. Within minutes, his breathing slowed, soft and even, the peace of childhood untouched by the mess of adults.

I sat there longer than I should have, just watching him. His small chest rising and falling, the way his hair curled against his forehead. He was mine. He was my whole world. And yet his question echoed like a bell I couldn’t unhear. Uncle Declan. Even after all these years, after all the choices I had made, his name lived here. In this house. On my son’s lips.

When I finally slipped into bed, Jacob was already lying down, his back to me, shoulders tense even in sleep. Or maybe he wasn’t asleep at all. Maybe he was listening, waiting.

I stared at the ceiling, the shadows shifting across it. The silence between us seemed to grow deeper, suffocating. My mind replayed the morning at the kitchen table, the mutterings in the study, Noah’s innocent question. And beneath it all, the memory of Declan’s eyes, the way they used to look at me like I was his whole world.

I turned on my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with everything unsaid.

How long could I live like this?

The thought rose before I could stop it, terrifying in its clarity. How long could I keep pretending this was enough?

I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come. But all I could hear was Declan’s name, whispered in Noah’s voice, echoing through the cracks in my carefully built foundation.