⸻
We found a quiet corner of the terminal, away from the crowded gate area, Milo clutching my hand tightly, Ivy standing several feet away, clearly unsure whether she was welcome to stay for whatever conversation came next.
⸻
“Explain,” I said. “All of it. Now.”
⸻
Weston sat down heavily on a bench, working through, I imagine, exactly how to compress four months into something coherent enough for a hallway conversation.
⸻
“Ivy’s mother and I dated for about six months,” he said, “when I was nineteen, four years before I ever met you. We broke up before she found out she was pregnant. She never told me. I had absolutely no idea Ivy existed until a genetic testing service matched us four months ago.”
⸻
“Four months,” I repeated. “You’ve known for four months and said nothing.”
⸻
“I needed to know it was real first,” Weston said. “I needed to talk to her, understand who she actually was, before I brought that kind of enormous news home to you and Milo. I was terrified of getting your hopes up, or Milo’s, about a sibling, and then having it fall apart if Ivy and I didn’t actually connect.”
