“Erica and Tom are already on their way.”
“To the resort?”
Another silence.
Too long.
“Mom?”
Before she answered, my phone buzzed.
Dad.
My father almost never texted.
His message contained seven words.
DO NOT SEND THE BOYS BACK YET.
Then another appeared.
Check Ben’s blue overnight bag. Bottom pocket.
I stared at the phone.
My mother was still speaking.
“Megan?”
“I’ll call you back.”
I hung up.
Ben was watching television.
Sam had pancake syrup on his cheek.
Neither noticed when I quietly carried the blue overnight bag into the hallway.
There was a zipper underneath the front compartment.
Inside, beneath a pair of socks, I found a large brown envelope.
My name was written on it.
MEGAN — READ BEFORE CALLING ERICA.
My hands started trembling.
Inside were documents.
The first was titled:
TEMPORARY GUARDIANSHIP AUTHORIZATION.
My name appeared beneath Erica’s.
My address was listed as the boys’ temporary residence.
It said I had agreed to provide care for Ben and Sam for up to six months.
And beneath everything was a signature.
My signature.
Except I had never signed it.
I stared at the page until the letters blurred.
There were more documents.
School forms.
Medical authorization.
A photocopy of my driver’s license.
Then airline confirmations.
Erica’s name.
Tom’s name.
Two tickets.
Departure: that afternoon.
Destination: San José, Costa Rica.
Return:
Blank.
I called Dad.
He answered immediately.
“Did you find it?”
“What the hell is this?”
His breathing sounded shaky.
“I found those papers in your mother’s desk last night.”
“Why were they there?”
“Megan—”
“Why does Erica have forged guardianship papers with my name on them?”
Another pause.
Then Dad said the sentence that changed everything.
“Because there is no resort weekend.”
I sat down hard on the hallway floor.
“What?”
“Erica is leaving.”
“For Costa Rica?”
“Yes.”
“For six months?”
“I don’t think she planned on coming back.”
I stared toward the living room.
Ben laughed at something on television.
Sam was making his dinosaur walk across the coffee table.
My throat tightened.
“What about her children?”
Dad’s voice broke.
“She planned to leave them with you.”
I couldn’t speak.
“The family knew?” I finally whispered.
“Your mother did.”
“How long?”
“A few weeks.”
I stood so fast the papers slipped from my lap.
“And nobody thought I deserved to know?”
“I didn’t know until yesterday.”
“Why me?”
Dad didn’t answer.
“Dad.”
“There’s another envelope.”
I looked inside.
A smaller white envelope remained.
“Open it.”
Inside was a laboratory report.
At first, the columns meant nothing.
Names.
Numbers.
Genetic markers.
Then I saw a familiar name.
One I had not said aloud in months.
Aaron Mitchell.
My ex-husband.
Abigail’s father.
My knees weakened.
Aaron and I had divorced three years earlier after fourteen years together.
Our marriage hadn’t ended because of one dramatic betrayal.
