CHAPTER 7
The next week was one of the hardest of my life. Ethan was a mess. He went back and forth between anger at Vanessa and fear that the baby was actually his. He could barely focus on work. He barely slept. He barely ate.
I tried to be strong for him, but I was struggling too. I was tired of the lies, tired of the drama, tired of the Mitchells trying to ruin everything I had built. I was also dealing with something I hadn’t told anyone—something that made all of this even harder.
Six months earlier, I had been diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer.
I had caught it early. The doctors said my prognosis was good. I had surgery, and I was going through chemotherapy. It was why I had been “traveling in Europe” for the past few months. I had told Ethan I was taking a long vacation to rest. I hadn’t wanted to worry him. I hadn’t wanted him to stay with me out of pity instead of living his own life.
Now, with everything going on, I was exhausted. The chemo was making me tired, making my hair thin, making my bones ache. I had to wear wigs and scarves to hide the hair loss. I had to take breaks during the day to rest. I didn’t want Ethan to find out. I didn’t want him to have to worry about me and the baby and the Mitchells all at once.
But secrets don’t stay secrets forever.
One afternoon, I was resting on the couch when Ethan came over. He let himself in, as he always did, and found me lying there, my wig off, my head wrapped in a soft scarf. He froze in the doorway, his eyes wide.
“Mom?” he said, his voice small. “What’s going on? Why are you wearing a scarf? Where’s your hair?”
I sat up, my heart racing. I had been caught. There was no point in lying anymore.
I patted the couch next to me.
“Come sit down, baby. I have something to tell you.”
He sat down, his face tight with worry. I took his hand, telling him everything. The diagnosis. The surgery. The chemo. The good prognosis. Why I had kept it from him.
Tears streamed down his face as I spoke. When I finished, he pulled me into a tight hug, holding me like he was afraid I would disappear.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered. “I would have been there for you. I would have taken care of you.”
“I know,” I said, my own eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want you to have to worry about me when you were trying to build your own life. I wanted you to be happy.”
He pulled back, looking at me, his face filled with guilt and pain.
“Happy? How could I be happy if you were sick and I didn’t even know? I’ve been such an idiot. I’ve been so focused on Vanessa and all this drama, I didn’t even notice my own mom was fighting cancer.”
“Hey,” I said, cupping his face in my hands. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. This wasn’t your fault. I chose not to tell you. I thought I was protecting you. I was wrong. I should have been honest with you from the start.”
He shook his head.
“No. I should have been paying attention. I should have been here for you. I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry for everything. For not listening to you about Vanessa. For fighting with you. For not being the son you deserve.”
I pulled him into another hug.
“You are the best son any mother could ever ask for. We’re going to get through this. All of it. My cancer. The Mitchells. The baby. We’re going to get through it together. Okay?”
He nodded, crying into my shoulder.
“Okay. Together.”
That moment changed everything. Ethan stopped wallowing. He stopped letting the Mitchells get into his head. He became focused. Determined.
He went back to work the next day, taking on more responsibility, helping me run the company when I was too tired from chemo. He spent more time with me, making sure I was eating, making sure I was resting. He became my rock, just like I had always been his.
Our relationship, which had been strained for months, grew stronger than ever. We talked about everything. We laughed together. We cried together. For the first time in a long time, it felt like we were truly a family again.
But the Mitchells weren’t going away.
A week later, Sarah called with an update.
“We got Vanessa’s medical records. She is pregnant. Eight weeks along. But my investigators found something interesting. She was seeing another man for the first three months she was dating Ethan. His name is Jake. He’s a bartender at a club she used to go to all the time. They broke up about two months ago. The timeline lines up. The baby could easily be his.”
I felt a wave of relief, but also anger.
“Can we prove it?”
“We have text messages between them. Photos of them together, dated right around the time the baby would have been conceived. We can’t get a paternity test until the baby is born, but this is enough to cast serious doubt on her claim. It’ll make her look even worse in court.”
“Good,” I said. “Hold onto it. We’ll use it when the time is right.”
I hung up the phone, looking over at Ethan, who was working at the kitchen table. He looked up, sensing my gaze.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Good news and bad news,” I said. “She is pregnant. But there’s a very good chance the baby isn’t yours.”
His face went through a dozen emotions in a few seconds. Relief. Anger. Sadness. Finally, he nodded, his jaw set.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we wait. We get ready. And when the time comes, we end this once and for all.”
I smiled at him, proud of how strong he had become.
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The Mitchells had no idea what they were up against.
They had messed with the wrong family.
