After the Storm The Billionaire's Forgotten Wife

"Fee, the thing with that woman, Brian really did keep it from you—"

"I know."

"He meant to end it, but she said she was pregnant—"

"He couldn't end it."

Charles was quiet for a moment, then he left.

The second the door shut, my mother came over and took the cup out of my hand. Only then did I notice I'd crushed it out of shape, hot water all over my fingers. I hadn't felt the burn.

The younger one woke up wailing, mouth wide open, and the older one woke to the noise and started crying too.

I scooped one into each arm and sat down on the couch.

My mother handed me a bottle, and when I took it I saw her eyes had gone red.

"Mom."

"Mm."

"From now on it's just the four of us in this place."

She untied her apron and wiped her eyes with it. "Mm. I'll go make some pork ribs for you."

The range hood started up in the kitchen. The two little ones each took a bottle. The older one drifted off mid-feed, nipple still in his mouth. The younger one had energy to spare, kicking his legs while he ate, one little hand fisted in the front of my shirt and refusing to let go.

I laid the older one gently back in the rocker. Outside the curtains the sky had gone fully dark.

My phone buzzed once.

A text from Brian. Two words: It's signed.

I didn't reply.

Another came through: Fee, I'm sorry.

I opened Sloane's contact. The scarf photo was still her picture. I hit delete and dropped her number into the block list.

The younger one burped up milk all over my shoulder.

I wiped it with a cloth and held him a little closer.

Outside the window a pair of headlights flared, swung around the corner, and were gone.

When Bridget handed me the divorce decree, the gold lettering on the cover caught the light and stung my eyes.

I took it and flipped it open. The photo had been retaken last week, hair thrown into a careless ponytail, the shadows under my eyes not fully faded.

"I'll follow up on the property transfer myself. You won't need to show your face again."

I shoved the decree into my bag. Before I could zip it, my phone rang.

It was Charles.

"Fee, my brother told me to ask—he had some things for the kids sent over. Where do you want them?"

"Throw them out."

A few seconds of silence on the other end. "...There's diapers, formula, that kind of thing. Several boxes."

"I said throw them out."

I hung up and walked out. Bridget came after me with an umbrella. It had started to rain outside, not hard, a fine drizzle settling on my hair. I didn't open it.

While I was waiting at the bus stop, an old woman beside me was pushing a stroller. The baby inside was wrapped in a goose-yellow blanket, two or three months old at most, kicking happily. The old woman bent to pick up a fallen pacifier, and without thinking I reached out to steady the stroller handle for her.

She straightened up and looked me over. "How old's your little one?"

"Twins. A little over three months."

"Oh, that's hard work." She patted my arm. "Raising them on your own?"

"Mm."

"Where's their father?"

I gave a small smile and said nothing. The bus came. I got on and took the window seat in the last row. The decree pressed against my thigh through the bag, one hard, stiff corner.

Back home I dropped the decree into the drawer of the TV stand. My mother was washing the younger one's bottom. The older one lay on the play mat, lifting his head twice before flopping back down, drool smeared across his face.

"You get it?"

"I got it."

She didn't ask anything else, just wrapped the younger one up and handed him to me. Something was off with him today. The moment he touched my arm he started bawling, voice gone hoarse, little legs kicking everywhere. I carried him around the room twice. No good. I tried feeding him. He wouldn't take it. I changed his diaper. He only cried harder.

My mother picked up the older one. "Is something hurting him?"

I touched his forehead. No fever.

His belly was tight and round. I pressed it and he kicked even harder. My mother said it might be gas, so I went to the kitchen, poured hot water into a milk storage bag, and laid it on his stomach. He squirmed a couple of times and went quiet.

Quiet for maybe ten seconds. Then the crying started again.

The older one fussed and whimpered at the noise, and my mother held him in one arm while patting the younger one's back with the other, sweat beading on her forehead.

The doorbell rang.

I didn't have a free moment for it. It rang twice more.

"Fee, open the door, it's me."

Brian's voice.

My mother glanced at me. I didn't move, the younger one in my arms. The older one started crying in her arms too, both of them at once, the living room like a pot boiling over.

"Fee, I'll just leave the things by the door, all right?"

I said nothing. The crying was too loud, the younger one screaming at the top of his lungs, his little face flushed purple-red, even his toes curled in.

It went quiet at the door for a while. Then I heard plastic boxes dragging across the floor. One trip, two, three. When he'd finished, the footsteps stopped at the door.

"Fee, the younger one's stomach is bad. I switched the formula to the hydrolyzed kind. Don't feed him the wrong one."

I turned around with the younger one in my arms, my back to the door.

The footsteps outside moved away.

The younger one wailed a while longer, finally wore himself out, and dropped off to sleep with hiccupping little sobs. I laid him on the bed and tucked the blanket around him. My shoulders ached too much to lift.

My mother coaxed the older one to sleep too, and the two of them lay side by side, the same little faces, even the shape of their mouths the same in sleep.

I went to the kitchen for a drink of water. Passing the door, I looked out through the peephole.

Six big cardboard boxes were stacked in the hallway, lined up neatly. On the top one was a sticky note, the handwriting Brian's.

"Younger one gets the hydrolyzed formula, older one's fine on the regular. Bought two boxes of diapers in one size. Leave the toys until they're bigger."

I peeled the note off and crushed it.