Chapter 4 - THE MAN I REFUSED TO NAME
I found Ainsley’s old phone backup.
Not because I hacked anything.
It was part of the estate archive.
Messages from the separation year.
Most ordinary.
Her sister.
Friends.
Me.
Then Garrick.
Not romantic at first.
GARRICK:
You okay?
AINSLEY:
No.
GARRICK:
Want coffee?
AINSLEY:
Probably shouldn’t.
GARRICK:
That sounds like yes.
My stomach turned.
Another week.
AINSLEY:
I feel disgusting.
GARRICK:
You’re separated.
AINSLEY:
He’s your brother.
There.
I stopped reading.
Naomi was in my office.
“Continue.”
“I know enough.”
“No. You know there was something.”
I hated her.
Then continued.
GARRICK:
I know.
AINSLEY:
This cannot happen again.
GARRICK:
It won’t.
No declarations.
No affair spanning months.
One event.
Then five weeks later:
AINSLEY:
I’m pregnant.
No reply for seven hours.
Then:
GARRICK:
Does Bramwell know?
AINSLEY:
Yes.
GARRICK:
Does he know about me?
AINSLEY:
No.
GARRICK:
Are you sure timing could be his?
AINSLEY:
Yes.
GARRICK:
Could be mine too?
AINSLEY:
Yes.
There.
My brother had known before Sorrel was born that he might be biological father.
Then:
GARRICK:
What do you want?
AINSLEY:
I don’t know.
Then days later:
AINSLEY:
Bram says if we raise the baby, biology doesn’t matter.
GARRICK:
Then leave it alone.
AINSLEY:
You would?
GARRICK:
Yes.
AINSLEY:
I don’t think I can.
I stared.
Ainsley wanted truth.
Garrick wanted silence.
Then later:
AINSLEY:
I want a test after birth.
GARRICK:
No.
AINSLEY:
You don’t get to decide alone.
GARRICK:
And Bramwell does?
AINSLEY:
Bramwell is choosing to raise this child without knowing who I was with. That is already more mercy than either of us deserves.
That line hurt.
Then nothing for months.
The backup had a gap.
Ainsley changed phones.
Later messages resumed after Sorrel’s birth.
GARRICK:
He looks like you.
AINSLEY:
He looks like a baby.
GARRICK:
Good.
Then:
AINSLEY:
We still need to test.
GARRICK:
Stop.
AINSLEY:
No.
Then four months later:
AINSLEY:
I know now.
My hands went cold.
Garrick replied:
Don’t text this.
There.
No result.
No answer.
But “I know now.”
A test had happened.
Or some other proof.
Then:
AINSLEY:
You know too.
GARRICK:
Yes.
Exactly the note.
He knows who his father is.
Maybe Ainsley meant:
Garrick knows.
My brother knew.
Then a later message:
AINSLEY:
Your mother looks at him like he’s mine only.
GARRICK:
She thinks he probably is.
AINSLEY:
Because you told her that.
GARRICK:
I told her Bramwell is on the certificate.
AINSLEY:
Not what I asked.
There.
Mother had begun believing Sorrel was not blood because Garrick wanted her to.
Then one last message before Ainsley’s illness became severe:
AINSLEY:
If you ever let Eudora punish him for what we did, I will tell Bramwell everything.
Garrick:
You should have told him years ago.
Ainsley:
So should you.
No reply.
I leaned back.
Naomi said:
“Do not call him.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Then I made the mistake anyway.
Not by calling Garrick.
By sending a family message.
Twenty-seven people.
Relatives from the camping reunion.
I wrote:
No one is to repeat that Sorrel is “not blood.” Ainsley’s records show Garrick knew far more about Sorrel’s paternity than he admitted. If anyone wants answers, ask him why.
I sent it.
Naomi stared at my phone.
“What did you just do?”
I already knew.
“Something stupid.”
Within twelve minutes:
Three replies.
Within thirty:
A cousin called.
By evening, somebody had interpreted my message as:
Garrick is Sorrel’s biological father.
I had not technically said it.
I had handed gossip every tool required.
Then Garrick’s lawyer emailed:
Your insinuation is defamatory, reckless and harmful to a minor child.
I read.
Could be.
The problem was not only Garrick.
Sorrel’s cousin heard adults talking on speakerphone.
Then Sorrel heard from that cousin the next afternoon.
“Uncle Garrick is your real dad.”
My five-year-old came home from kindergarten care and asked:
“Are you fake Dad?”
I wanted to tear my own phone in half.
Instead I sat on the floor.
“No.”
“Colton said Uncle is real Dad.”
“We don’t know all the biology yet.”
“You said blood not family.”
“Yes.”
“Then why everyone says real?”
Because adults are lazy with language.
Because I was angry enough to invite them.
I held his shoulders.
“I am your dad.”
“Uncle?”
“We are checking something about whether Uncle Garrick may be biologically related to you in another way.”
His eyes filled.
“Is he taking me?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“No one is taking you because of biology.”
Then I called Naomi.
She did not yell.
Worse.
“I told you truth or revenge.”
“I know.”
“Which one was that message?”
“Revenge.”
“Good. Own it.”
May you like
I did.
And for the first time since the campsite, I understood that Garrick and Mother were not the only adults capable of making Sorrel pay for adult shame.
