The photograph in Emily Carter’s hand should have been harmless—a smiling woman standing beside a Christmas tree with one arm around her daughter—but the moment I saw it, every word disappeared from my mouth. I knew that woman. More importantly, I knew her in a way no man dating her daughter would ever want to explain.
Chapter 2
I did not sleep that night.
At two in the morning, I sat on my couch with my laptop open and accomplished nothing. I considered every possible version of the truth, and every one sounded terrible.
Emily, before you and I met, I had a relationship with your mother.
Too vague.
Emily, I slept with your mother.
Too brutal.
Emily, I unknowingly started dating the daughter of a woman I used to have a long-term sexual relationship with.
Accurate, but somehow worse.
Around three thirty, I gave up rehearsing.
I texted Emily.
Can we talk tomorrow in person?
Her reply came less than a minute later.
Yes. Noon. My place.
I arrived ten minutes early and spent those ten minutes sitting in my car wondering whether honesty could be both the right thing and a disaster.
Emily opened the door before I knocked.
She was wearing sweatpants and an old college sweatshirt. Her hair was tied back, and she looked as though she had slept about as well as I had.
“Come in.”
There was no kiss.
I followed her into the living room.
She sat in an armchair instead of beside me on the couch.
That told me everything about how this conversation was going to feel.
“Do you know my mother?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
I looked at the floor for a moment, then back at her.
“She was my boss.”
Emily’s face changed slightly.
“At Hawthorne?”
“Yes.”
“She never mentioned you.”
“There’s a reason.”
Her eyes narrowed.
I could have softened it. I could have stretched the truth into smaller pieces.
I decided not to.
“Your mother and I had a relationship.”
Emily did not move.
“What kind of relationship?”
“It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense.”
She stared at me.
Then understanding arrived.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that yet.”
Her voice was strangely calm.
“Emily—”
“How long?”
“About two years.”
Her eyes widened.
“Two years?”
“Yes.”
She stood and walked toward the kitchen, then turned around.
“You slept with my mother for two years?”
“Not continuously. But yes.”
“Oh my God.”
She pressed both hands against her temples.
“Oh my God.”
I stayed where I was.
She looked at me again.
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-three when it started.”
“And she was what? Fifty?”
“Fifty-one.”
Emily let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Of course.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. I don’t even know what anything means right now.”
She began pacing.
“Did you know she had a daughter?”
“Yes.”
She stopped.
My stomach dropped.
“But I didn’t know it was you.”
“You knew she had a daughter my age?”
“I knew she had a daughter. I barely knew anything about her.”
“Did you ever ask?”
“Not much.”
“Why not?”
“Because your mother and I kept our personal lives separate.”
Emily stared at me as though that answer offended her even more.
“You slept together for two years and somehow family never came up?”
“It came up generally. We weren’t building a life together.”
She closed her eyes.
I realized how cold that sounded.
“That came out wrong.”
“No, I think it came out exactly right.”
She sat again, this time farther away.
“Did you love her?”
“No.”
“Did she love you?”
“Not that she ever said.”
“Did you date?”
“Not exactly.”
“Were you sleeping with anyone else?”
“Not while we were involved.”
She nodded slowly.
“So you were exclusive.”
“Mostly, yes.”
“But not dating.”
“It was complicated.”
Emily laughed again, but there was no humor in it.
“That phrase should be illegal.”
I could not disagree.
She began asking questions.
Some hurt.
Some embarrassed both of us.
Did I stay at Catherine’s house? Yes.
Did Catherine stay at mine? Occasionally.
Did anyone at work know? Not that I was aware of.
Did Catherine ever talk about Emily? Rarely.
Had I seen pictures of Emily? No.
Had Catherine ever mentioned Emily by name?
That question stopped me.
“I honestly don’t remember.”
Emily looked wounded.
“Great. So maybe my mother did mention me, and I was so unimportant to whatever you two were doing that you forgot.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Fair?”
She stood abruptly.
“You want to talk about fair?”
I said nothing.
Her eyes filled with tears, which seemed to make her angrier.
“I finally meet someone I actually trust. Someone normal. Someone who doesn’t play games. And now I find out you’ve slept with my mother.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I know!”
Her voice cracked.
“That’s what makes this so stupid. I know you didn’t know.”
She turned away.
If I had deliberately pursued her after knowing who her mother was, the decision would have been simple. She could have hated me.
Instead, we were trapped in something no one had planned.
Emily wiped her eyes.
“When did you figure it out?”
“Last night. When you showed me the picture.”
“And you lied.”
That hit harder than everything else.
“I panicked.”
“You said she looked familiar.”
“I know.”
“You could have told me right there.”
“At a restaurant?”
“You could have said we needed to leave.”
“You’re right.”
She looked at me.
“That’s the part I’m angry about.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I probably don’t.”
She sat down again.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally, she said, “I need to talk to her.”
“I assumed you would.”
“And I need you to leave.”
I nodded.
At the door, I turned.
“For what it’s worth, I care about you more than I ever cared about whatever existed between your mother and me.”
Emily’s expression tightened.
“That does not help.”
“I know.”
I left.
Two hours later, my phone rang.
Catherine.
I stared at her name until the call almost went to voicemail.
Then I answered.
“Hello.”
“Ryan.”
Her voice had not changed.
“Catherine.”
“What the hell?”
That part had changed.
“I didn’t know.”
“You’re dating my daughter?”
“I did not know she was your daughter until yesterday.”
“How is that even possible?”
“You and I never talked about her.”
“I told you about Emily.”
“Not enough for me to recognize her five years later.”
She exhaled sharply.
“This is unbelievable.”
“You think I planned it?”
“No.”
“Then stop talking to me like I hunted her down.”
Silence.
Then Catherine said, “She’s devastated.”
“So am I.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“And she’s the woman I’m seeing.”
“Were seeing.”
That word hurt.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Catherine went quiet.
Then she surprised me.
“No. I suppose I don’t.”
Her anger softened, though only slightly.
“She called me crying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
I sat on the edge of my bed.
“Catherine, I told her everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything she asked.”
Another silence.
“That must have been pleasant.”
“It was one of the worst conversations of my life.”
“Mine too, and I’ve been through a divorce.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed.
Catherine sighed.
“I’m coming to Denver next weekend.”
“Emily told me you might visit.”
“I was planning to. Now I definitely am.”
“Does she want me there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I’m not showing up unless she asks.”
“That’s probably wise.”
Before hanging up, Catherine said, “Ryan?”
“Yes?”
“For what it’s worth, I believe you didn’t know.”
It should have made me feel better.
It didn’t.
For the next week, Emily and I exchanged only a few messages.
She asked if I was okay.
I asked the same.
Neither of us answered honestly.
Then, on Friday evening, she sent me an address.
My mother gets here tomorrow. Come at four.
I read the message three times.
Then another arrived.
We need to decide whether there’s anything left to save.
