Chapter 3 - THE GRANDMOTHER WHO WANTED AN HEIR
I reached my mother’s Beacon Hill brownstone twenty-three minutes after leaving the law office.
I don’t remember driving there.
I remember the archived envelope.
I remember sitting across from Martin Hayes, the senior partner who had called me, while he placed it on the table like an unexploded bomb.
And I remember what had been inside.
A second letter from Elena.
A copy of her positive pregnancy test.
And a handwritten note from my mother.
Client requested no personal correspondence from estranged spouse. Place in storage pending final divorce decree. — B. Vance
One problem.
I had never requested that.
My mother had forged my authority.
Six years ago.
And Martin had believed her because Beatrice Vance had been one of the founding partners’ most powerful clients.
By the time I reached her house, anger had transformed into something colder.
Beatrice’s housekeeper opened the door.
“Mr. Vance.”
“Where is she?”
“In the drawing room.”
I didn’t knock.
My mother sat beneath an oil portrait of my grandfather, drinking tea as though she hadn’t stolen five years of my children’s lives from me.
She looked up.
“Alexander.”
The use of my full name told me she already knew.
“You knew.”
Her hand paused.
That was enough.
I threw the archived envelope onto the table.
“You knew Elena was pregnant.”
Beatrice placed her cup down carefully.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“We should discuss this calmly.”
“You intercepted her calls.”
Silence.
“You changed my email access.”
“I had your assistant redirect personal correspondence during the divorce.”
“You forged instructions to my law firm.”
“I protected you.”
A laugh escaped me.
It sounded ugly.
“Protected me from my pregnant wife?”
“From manipulation.”
“She was carrying four of my children.”
“We did not know that.”
“You knew she was pregnant.”
“A woman announcing a pregnancy during a divorce is not proof of paternity.”
My hands curled into fists.
“Watch what you say.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
For the first time in my entire life, Beatrice Vance looked surprised by me.
“You didn’t even like Elena,” she said.
“I loved her.”
“You left her.”
“Because you spent three years convincing me she was destroying my future.”
“I told you facts.”
“You fed me fear.”
“I told you that the Vance family required—”
“Required what? An heir?”
My voice rose.
“She gave birth to four children.”
Beatrice’s expression changed.
Just slightly.
And there it was.
Not guilt.
Interest.
“Four confirmed biological children?”
The question made my stomach turn.
“You already know.”
Her silence told me everything.
“Elena said you visited three months ago.”
Beatrice leaned back.
“So she told you.”
“What did you want?”
“To make sure the children were being raised appropriately.”
“They have a mother.”
“They are Vances.”
“They are people.”
“They carry our blood.”
I walked toward her desk.
“You tried to take custody.”
“I explored options.”
“On what grounds?”
“Elena has built a company rapidly. She travels. The children are exposed to media attention. There are legitimate questions about stability.”
I stared at her.
“Elena built Little Nests from one daycare into a national franchise while raising quadruplets alone.”
“Yes.”
“And you call that unstable?”
“I call it ambitious.”
Something about the word made me understand.
This had never really been about fertility.
My mother had hated Elena because Elena couldn’t be controlled.
Elena came from a middle-class family.
She had paid her way through college.
She laughed too loudly at Vance dinners.
She wore a $200 dress to a charity gala instead of a $6,000 designer gown and somehow received more attention than every socialite in the room.
Beatrice could tolerate many things.
What she couldn’t tolerate was a woman who didn’t need her approval.
“You wanted me to marry Caroline.”
My mother didn’t deny it.
“You thought she was suitable.”
“She understood your world.”
“Elena understood me.”
“Then why did you leave her?”
The question hit exactly where my mother intended.
I had no defense.
Because that was the unbearable truth.
Beatrice manipulated me.
But I chose to listen.
She handed me poison.
I drank it.
I walked out.
“I left because I was a coward.”
My mother blinked.
I had never admitted that before.
Not even to myself.
“And I’ll spend the rest of my life living with it.”
“Alexander—”
“But you made sure I never got the chance to correct it.”
Her face tightened.
“Elena could have found you.”
“She tried.”
“Not hard enough.”
I slammed both hands onto the desk.
“Do not blame her.”
The house went silent.
My mother stared at me.
Then something remarkable happened.
Beatrice smiled.
It wasn’t warm.
It was the smile she used in negotiations when she believed she had found leverage.
“You’re emotional.”
“They’re my children.”
“Precisely.”
She stood.
“And now you understand why we must act quickly.”
“We?”
“Elena has spent five years building a narrative in which you don’t exist.”
“She protected them.”
“She excluded you.”
“Because she thought I didn’t want them.”
“Then change that.”
“I plan to.”
“With lawyers.”
My blood chilled.
“No.”
“She will never voluntarily give you equal custody.”
“I don’t want to attack her.”
“You want your children.”
“I want a relationship with them.”
“Then you need leverage.”
“No.”
Beatrice walked closer.
“Alexander, sentimentality cost you six years. Don’t let it cost you the next twelve.”
I finally understood the full scale of the danger Elena had been dealing with.
My mother wasn’t remorseful.
She believed she had made a strategic error.
And now she wanted to correct it by treating four children as family assets.
“I’m warning you,” I said.
“About what?”
“Stay away from Elena.”
Her expression cooled.
“You don’t dictate my relationship with my grandchildren.”
“They don’t have a relationship with you.”
“They will.”
“No.”
The word echoed.
My mother stared at me as though I had slapped her.
“I’ve already spoken to attorneys,” she said.
“So have I.”
That was a lie.
For the moment.
But it wouldn’t be for long.
Beatrice crossed her arms.
“If Elena refuses reasonable access, we can establish paternity and petition the court.”
“We?”
“You’re their father.”
“And I will decide what kind of father I become.”
My mother’s gaze sharpened.
“Think carefully.”
“I finally am.”
I turned toward the door.
“Alexander.”
I stopped.
She spoke quietly.
“Before you make Elena into some martyr, perhaps ask yourself why she never came after you for child support.”
I turned back.
“She didn’t need my money.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Elena had resources remarkably quickly after your divorce.”
My patience snapped.
“She built a business.”
“With what capital?”
I hesitated.
She smiled again.
“You never wondered?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“I’m suggesting your former wife may have had help.”
“From whom?”
Beatrice returned to her chair.
“That’s what you should discover before you decide who the villain is.”
I left without answering.
But the question followed me.
Two hours later, I sat in my car outside Little Nests, watching parents collect their children.
I hated myself for allowing my mother’s insinuation into my head.
Elena deserved better.
Then my phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
I answered.
“Alex Vance?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Daniel Mercer. You don’t know me.”
The voice was male.
Calm.
“I know Elena.”
My grip tightened.
“What about her?”
A pause.
Then:
“I think we should meet before you decide what to do about the children.”
“Why?”
“Because six years ago, when Elena was pregnant and alone, I was the person who drove her to the hospital.”
Something hot and irrational moved through my chest.
“Who are you to her?”
“That’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
Daniel exhaled.
“I’m the reason Little Nests exists.”
I closed my eyes.
My mother’s question returned.
With what capital?
“Where?”
“There’s a coffee shop on Commonwealth Avenue.”
“When?”
“Now.”
I started the engine.
But before I could pull away, the front doors of Little Nests opened.
Four children ran out.
My children.
I knew before anyone told me.
Owen came first, holding a red backpack.
Lucas followed, shouting something over his shoulder.
Sophie and Grace emerged hand in hand.
Then Elena stepped outside.
The four of them crowded around her.
For one frozen moment, I watched my family exist without me.
And then Lucas saw me.
He stopped running.
His siblings followed his gaze.
The little boy looked directly through my windshield.
My own hazel eyes stared back at me.
Elena turned.
Her face went white.
Lucas pointed at my car.
Then he looked up at his mother and asked something I couldn’t hear.
Elena didn’t answer.
But Sophie did.
Even through the closed windows, I could read her lips.
“That’s him.”
May you like
My heart stopped.
Then all four children began walking toward me.
