After the Storm The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

Brian's lips moved, but nothing came out.

My mother dragged in a breath. "You try to take An away today, I'll cut you down first, then cut myself down after."

Theodore started coughing, a wet rattle in his throat, his little face going red.

I set Job down in the rocker and lifted Theodore, patting his back.

A bit of phlegm came up, and then he started crying again.

Brian came over and reached out to take him.

I didn't give him over.

"Stay where you are."

His hand stopped in midair.

"You've got her perfume on you," I said. "Gucci Bloom. The one she's always spraying."

He lowered his hand.

"You saw her before you came?"

He said nothing.

"What did she say?"

"She said—" Brian's voice was very low. "She's pregnant."

The living room went so quiet there was nothing but Theodore's hiccupping.

My mother's knife hit the floor. A single clang.

I patted Theodore's back.

"How far along?"

"A little over two months."

"Two and a half months younger than these two," I said, and I smiled. "Brian, you work fast."

His head snapped up. "An, I never touched her—"

"Then whose baby is she carrying?"

His lips trembled.

"She said it was that night, the night you gave birth, in Miami—"

"That night?" I cut him off. "I was hemorrhaging, and the two of you were getting a room in Miami?"

He didn't deny it.

Theodore started crying again, so I walked him back and forth in my arms.

I walked to the window. Down below, a young couple pushed a stroller past, the husband bending to tie his wife's shoe.

"You should go," I said.

"An—"

"Go home and cook for Sloane." I kept my back to him. "She's pregnant. Don't let her go hungry."

No sound behind me.

A long time passed before I heard his dress shoe turn on the floor, then come down on a dropped diaper with a wet, sticky squelch.

He left.

My mother crouched to pick up the knife. It had chipped against the floor, and she turned the chipped edge toward herself.

"An," she said, "I stewed pork ribs for you."

I carried Theodore back over.

Job had fallen asleep in the rocker, his little mouth opening and closing.

I laid Theodore down beside him, two identical little heads tucked side by side.

"Mom," I said, "tomorrow find my household register for me."

My mother had her back to me, chopping scallions, the knife rising and falling.

"All right."

I went to the coffee table and picked the divorce agreement up off the floor.

Brian had taken it when he left, then dropped it again by the door.

Job rolled over, his little fist landing on Theodore's face.

Theodore grunted but didn't wake, just turned his face away.

I sat on the arm of the couch and watched them.

My phone rang.

Sloane had sent a voice message. Twenty seconds.

I tapped it open.

Her voice was soft and sweet. "Sis, is Brian over at your place? I made soup and I'm waiting for him to come home and have some."

I set the phone face-down on the coffee table.

The screen was still lit. She'd changed her profile picture to the photo of Brian tying that scarf around her neck.

On the windowsill, the pothos my mother kept trailed down, water beading at the tips of the leaves.

I tapped the message and listened to it again.

"Sis, is Brian over at your place? I made soup and I'm waiting for him to come home and have some."

My mother poked her head out of the kitchen. "Who is it?"

"No one." I turned the phone off.

First thing the next morning I went to the law firm. That old friend of my mother's, James, had done divorce cases for twenty years, her office walls covered in client thank-you plaques. She read through the agreement three times, then tapped her finger on the line that said "division of assets."