I laughed when I spotted my ex-wife walking alone down a deserted road outside Franklin

PART 2

After the call ended, Rowan finished feeding Ellis. The baby’s eyelids had begun to droop. A thin line of milk rested at the corner of his mouth. Rowan wiped it with his thumb, so gently it surprised him.

Megan watched.

“What?” he asked quietly.

“Nothing.”

But it was not nothing.

It was a memory passing between them: Rowan years ago, in their old kitchen, trying to rescue an injured bird that had struck the window. Megan had teased him then for being clumsy with fragile things. He had said, “I’m careful when it matters.”

She had believed him.

Then he had not been careful with her.

Rowan shifted Ellis against his shoulder the way Megan showed him.

“I’m going to find her.”

Megan’s eyes glistened.

“Don’t promise that.”

“Why?”

“Because I believed too many promises once.”

He nodded slowly.

“Then I’ll say this instead. I will not stop looking.”

That, somehow, she accepted.

By late afternoon, Megan and the boys were moved to the cottage.

It stood at the end of a narrow lane beneath old trees, its white porch shaded by climbing roses. A small pond glittered beyond the back fence. Inside, there were clean linens, stocked cupboards, a crib already assembled, and a rocking chair near a window where sunlight pooled like honey on the wooden floor.

Megan stood just inside the doorway, Noah asleep against her and Ellis tucked into a carrier.

For a moment, she did not move.

Rowan carried in the last bag and set it by the kitchen table.

“Priya said the owner won’t come by unless you ask.”

Megan nodded.

He waited.

She looked around the cottage again, and he saw her fighting the instinct not to trust comfort. For a year, every safe place had come with a hidden cost. Every kindness had to be measured before accepted. That knowledge hurt him more than her anger ever had.

“There’s formula in the pantry,” he said. “Diapers in the nursery. Dr. Kline called in prescriptions for the boys’ vitamins. Priya arranged delivery.”

Megan touched the back of a chair.

“You don’t have to report every detail.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing it because you’re nervous.”

“Yes.”

She looked at him then.

There was something almost familiar in the silence. Not warm, not easy, but recognizable. Two people who had once known each other’s weather standing in the aftermath of a storm neither had fully survived.

Rowan took an envelope from his jacket.

“This is a temporary support account. In your name only. Priya set it up. I can’t access it. My mother can’t. Claire can’t. Use it for whatever you and the boys need.”

Megan did not take it.

“I’m not buying my way back,” he said. “I know that. This is for them. For you. No conditions.”

Her fingers tightened around Noah’s blanket.

“Money always has conditions in your family.”

“Then let this be the first thing I do that isn’t like my family.”

A long pause passed.

Finally, Megan took the envelope.

“Thank you,” she said, and the words seemed to cost her.

At the door, Rowan turned back.

“Megan?”

She looked exhausted again.

“If tonight goes badly—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

He swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I know.”

“I’m not ready to forgive you.”

“I know that too.”

Her eyes softened with a sadness deeper than anger.

“But I do believe you’re sorry.”

He carried that sentence with him all the way to his mother’s house.

The Bellamy estate sat on a ridge outside Franklin, all limestone pillars and manicured lawns, built by a grandfather who believed houses should announce permanence.

Lights glowed in every front window when Rowan arrived, though his mother lived there alone with a rotating staff who moved like ghosts.

Claire’s car was parked near the side entrance.

Rowan sat in his car for a moment, staring at it.

He had expected Claire would be there.

That did not make seeing the car easier.

His phone buzzed once.

Priya: Keep your questions simple. Let them talk.

He placed the phone in his inner pocket and walked inside.

Evelyn Bellamy waited in the formal sitting room beneath a portrait of Rowan’s father. She wore a navy dress, pearls, and the expression she used at funerals: dignified sorrow sharpened by control.

Claire stood near the fireplace, pale but composed.

“Rowan,” Evelyn said. “You look tired.”

He looked at his mother and wondered how many times he had mistaken cruelty for strength simply because it spoke softly and wore pearls.

“I am tired,” he said.

Claire stepped forward.

“You scared me.”

“No,” Rowan said quietly. “I inconvenienced you.”

Her face tightened.

Evelyn lifted one hand.

“Let’s not begin with accusations.”

“Then begin with answers.”

His mother studied him.

“About what?”

“Lily.”

For the first time, Claire’s mask slipped completely.

It lasted less than a second, but Rowan saw it.

So did Evelyn.

His mother’s gaze moved toward Claire, cold and warning.

Then back to him.

“Who told you that name?”

“Megan.”

Evelyn’s mouth compressed.

“Of course.”

Rowan felt something inside him settle.

The old version of him would have raised his voice.

Demanded.

Threatened.

Tonight, he became very still.

“Where is my daughter?”