Chapter 2: The Invitation I Never Received
Vanessa left the living room without answering.
Marcus heard her heels crossing the hallway, followed by the soft click of the bedroom door. He stood beside the coffee table, staring at the photograph until the boy's smiling face blurred.
Saturday.
Whatever was happening Saturday had already been arranged. Toulouse knew about it. Vanessa knew about it. Apparently, everyone knew about it except the man who had spent eight years making sure Jordan never felt abandoned.
Marcus reached for the photograph.
A corner of blue construction paper was tucked behind its wooden frame. He recognized the handwriting immediately: thick, uneven letters written by a child who had been proud of learning cursive.
To Dad. Thanks for always coming back.
Jordan had written it for Father's Day three years earlier.
Marcus had kept the note hidden behind the photograph because he didn't want to embarrass the boy by making too much of it. That was how their relationship worked. Jordan gave affection in small, sudden bursts, and Marcus learned to treasure them quietly.
He set the frame down.
From the bedroom came the scrape of a drawer opening.
Marcus walked to the hallway.
“Vanessa?””
No answer.
“I'm not asking you to cancel whatever you've planned. I want to know what I'm walking into.””
The bedroom door opened halfway.
Vanessa stood inside, holding a stack of folded shirts. Behind her, the closet was half-empty.
“I'm taking a few things to my sister's,” she said.
“You said that already.””
“Then why are you asking me again?””
“Because you keep giving me half an answer.””
She placed the shirts into a smaller overnight bag.
“Toulouse has been asking to take Jordan somewhere.””
“Where?””
“An event.””
“What event?””
“Marcus, I don't know why every question has to sound like an interrogation.””
“Because you won't give me a straight answer!””
His voice echoed down the hall.
Vanessa froze.
Marcus lowered his volume immediately. Jordan's bedroom was just around the corner, and the boy had a habit of listening when adults thought he was distracted.
“I'm sorry,” Marcus said.
“I'm not trying to yell.””
She looked at him with exhaustion rather than anger.
“It's a baseball clinic,” she admitted.
“A private one. Toulouse knows somebody who helps organize it.””
Marcus blinked.
“A baseball clinic?””
“Yes.””
“Jordan loves baseball.””
“I know.””
“Then why are you hiding it?””
“I'm not hiding it.””
He glanced at the overnight bag.
“Are you sure about that?””
Vanessa sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, she looked like the woman he had married eight years earlier: tired after work, shoulders aching, desperate for a few minutes in which nobody needed anything from her.
Marcus remembered meeting her at a friend's barbecue. She had been standing beside a folding table, trying to keep a paper plate from blowing away while Jordan, then four, chased bubbles across the yard.
Toulouse had been gone for years. Vanessa didn't talk about him much. When she did, she spoke with the flatness of someone who had already mourned a person who was still alive.
Marcus had not entered their lives expecting to become a father. He had simply fallen in love with a woman whose little boy refused to eat vegetables unless somebody pretended broccoli was a tiny tree.
The first time Jordan called him Dad, Marcus had been helping him assemble a toy dinosaur. The boy had dropped a plastic leg beneath the couch, looked up, and said, “Dad, can you get it?””
Marcus had retrieved the leg.
Neither of them had discussed the word afterward.
Now Vanessa was sitting in their bedroom telling him that biology had become the only definition that mattered.
“What's happening at this clinic?”” Marcus asked.
“It's a chance for Jordan to train with better coaches.””
“Great. I'll take him.””
“Toulouse wants to take him.””
“Then both of us can go.””
Vanessa rubbed her forehead.
“You're making this difficult.””
“I'm offering to drive to a baseball field.””
“You don't understand what this means to Toulouse.””
Marcus stared at her.
“What about what it means to Jordan?””
“He wants to know his father.””
“Then let him know his father.””
“He needs time alone with him.””
Marcus took a step back.
“Time alone?””
“Yes.””
“How much time?””
“I don't know.””
“An hour? A day? A weekend?””
“Marcus, stop.””
“Does he want to take Jordan overnight?””
Vanessa didn't answer.
The silence was enough.
Marcus looked toward the open closet. On the top shelf sat a cardboard box containing old birthday cards, hospital bracelets, and drawings Jordan had brought home from school. Marcus had saved every one.
He wondered whether Vanessa had ever looked at that box and seen a father.
Or whether she had seen a man keeping souvenirs from a role that never truly belonged to him.
“Has Toulouse ever spent a full day alone with Jordan?”” Marcus asked.
“Not yet.””
“Has he ever helped him with homework?””
“No.””
“Has he taken him to a doctor?””
“No.””
“Does he know which foods make him sick?””
Vanessa's head lifted.
“That's not fair.””
“Jordan gets hives from certain antibiotics. He has to tell every doctor before they give him anything. Does Toulouse know that?””
“I can tell him.””
“That's my point.””
“Your point is that you're better than him!””
“No,” Marcus said.
“My point is that a father is more than a name on a birth certificate.””
Vanessa stood.
“And my point is that you don't get to decide whether Jordan has a relationship with his biological father.””
“I never said I did.””
“You're acting like it.””
“I'm asking to be part of my son's life.””
“He isn't legally your son.””
The sentence landed between them with an ugly finality.
Marcus's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Vanessa seemed to recognize what she'd said. She looked away, pressing a hand against her cheek.
“I shouldn't have put it that way.””
“But you believe it.””
“I believe this situation is complicated.””
“No. The situation is complicated. What you just said was simple.””
She walked past him toward the hallway.
Marcus followed at a distance.
“Does Jordan know you're planning to leave?””
“I told you, I'm going to my sister's.””
“For how long?””
“I need space.””
“From me?””
“From all of this.””
He leaned against the doorframe, suddenly too tired to stand straight.
“Do you remember the night Jordan had his first baseball game after we got married?””
Vanessa stopped.
“He struck out three times. He came off the field crying so hard he couldn't catch his breath. I sat with him in the parking lot until he stopped shaking. You were in the car calling your sister because you were worried he would hate baseball forever.””
Marcus smiled faintly at the memory.
“He asked me if I thought he was a bad player. I told him the best players in the world struck out all the time. Then he asked me if I'd still come to his games even if he never hit the ball.””
Vanessa's shoulders sagged.
“I said yes,” Marcus continued.
“And he believed me.””
“I know.””
“Do you?””
She turned toward him.
“What do you want me to do, Marcus? Tell Toulouse he has no rights? Tell Jordan he isn't allowed to know him? I can't do that.””
“I haven't asked you to.””
“You keep making me choose.””
“Because you're the one turning this into a choice!””
His voice rose again.
He stopped, closed his eyes, and breathed through the anger.
When he spoke, his voice was quieter.
“I'm asking you to stop treating me like the problem simply because I was here when he wasn't.””
Vanessa's eyes glistened.
For one brief second, Marcus thought she might cross the hallway and take his hand.
Instead, she picked up her phone.
“I need to call my sister.””
She walked into the kitchen.
Marcus remained by the bedroom door, listening to the muffled sound of her voice. He could make out only a few words.
“Saturday.””
Then, “He doesn't know.””
And finally, “I promised Toulouse.””
Marcus straightened.
Promised him what?
He took two steps toward the kitchen, then stopped when Vanessa's voice dropped even lower.
“No. Jordan can't find out about the paperwork yet.””
The word paperwork seemed to drain the air from the hallway.
Marcus stood perfectly still.
He heard Vanessa end the call. A cabinet opened. Water ran briefly into a glass.
When she returned, she found him waiting.
“What paperwork?”” he asked.
Vanessa's face changed.
“Were you listening to my conversation?””
“I heard you say Jordan can't find out about paperwork.””
“It's a private matter.””
“About my son?””
“Marcus—”
“What paperwork?””
She gripped the glass so tightly that her knuckles paled.
“It's nothing that's been finalized.””
“Then tell me what it is.””
Vanessa looked toward the front door.
For eight years, Marcus had thought he understood every possible way his family could change. He had imagined arguments, difficult conversations, even divorce.
He had never imagined his wife could be making plans to change his place in Jordan's life while he stood in the next room, unaware.
“Is Toulouse trying to get custody?”” he asked.
“No.””
“Then what is it?””
She swallowed.
“He wants to make things official.””
Marcus stared at her.
“Make what official?””
Before she could answer, a car horn sounded outside.
Vanessa looked through the window.
Her face went pale.
Marcus followed her gaze and saw a dark SUV pull to the curb. A man stepped out, wearing a crisp white shirt and carrying a slim leather folder beneath his arm.
Marcus had never met Toulouse in person.
But he had seen enough photographs to recognize the face.
Vanessa set her glass down.
“He wasn't supposed to come yet,” she whispered.
The front doorbell rang.
May you like
Marcus looked at his wife.
“Then why,” he asked, “does he have a folder with my family's name on it?””