POV Elena
The morning feeding is finally done. My son is already settling in his bassinet, making those soft cooing sounds that mean he'll be asleep soon. Then the doorbell rings.
I freeze, patting my daughter's back automatically while my mind races. No one visits me here. No one even knows this address.
I creep to the door, baby still on my shoulder, and peer through the peephole. My heart stops.
Henri stands in my dingy apartment hallway, holding an enormous bouquet of peonies, looking like he's stepped out of a European fashion magazine.
His gray suit is perfectly tailored, not a wrinkle in sight, making the water-stained walls and flickering fluorescent light above him look even more pathetic by contrast.
Panic floods through me like ice water.
I look down at myself—milk-stained pajamas that I've been wearing for two days, my hair in a ratty bun that hasn't seen shampoo in longer than I want to admit.
Both bassinets are completely visible from the doorway, the twins' things scattered everywhere—bottles on the counter, tiny clothes draped over the couch, a breast pump sitting brazenly on the coffee table.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God," I whisper, carefully placing my daughter in her bassinet. She fusses immediately, but I can't hold her and handle this crisis.
I crack the door open just two inches, positioning my body to block any view inside. The chain lock is still on, which helps, but my heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
"Henri!" My voice comes out too high, too bright. "You're early… I mean, I wasn't expecting…"
"I couldn't wait another day, ma chérie," he says, and that charming French smile makes my knees weak even as panic claws at my throat. "These weeks have been torture."
"That's so sweet, but this really isn't a good time. I'm sick, actually. Very sick. Contagious, probably." The lie tumbles out desperately. "The apartment is also being fumigated. For bedbugs. Terrible infestation. You should really go before…"
Both twins erupt in hungry wails simultaneously, their cries piercing through the thin door like sirens. My blood turns to ice.
There's no mistaking that sound—it's unmistakably the cry of very young babies, not toddlers, not children. Newborns.
Henri's expression shifts from romantic anticipation to complete confusion. His brows furrow, and he leans slightly closer to the door.
"Are those... babies?" His voice carries a note I can't quite identify—concern? Disappointment? Suspicion? "You have children, Elena?"
The question hangs between us like a blade, ready to sever everything we've built through months of letters and stolen afternoons.
"My nephews!" The lie springs out before I can stop it, my mouth moving faster than my brain. "My sister had an emergency. A work thing. Very sudden. I'm just babysitting for a few days."
I watch his face carefully, seeing the tension in his shoulders relax, the concerned line between his brows smooth out. The relief that washes over his features cuts deeper than any rejection could.
Of course he doesn't want a woman with baggage. Of course the fantasy only works if I'm unencumbered, free to run away to France without looking back.
"Your sister has twins?" he asks, and there's something careful in his voice now, like he's putting pieces together.
"Yes, poor thing. Her husband left her right after they were born. Can you imagine? What kind of man does that?"
The irony of my words isn't lost on me, considering Adrian did exactly that, just without the official leaving part until now.
"That's terrible," Henri says, but he's already stepping back from the door, creating distance between us. "They sound very young. How old are they?"
"Two weeks," I say, then realize that's exactly how old my own twins are and quickly add, "I mean, two months. Sorry, I'm so tired I can't think straight."
The crying intensifies, both twins now in full meltdown mode, and I can feel my breasts starting to leak through my pajama top. The milk stains are going to be visible any second.
"Perhaps we should meet when you're... less occupied," Henri says carefully. "Tomorrow? That little café on Fifth? The one with the excellent croissants?"
"Yes, that would be perfect," I manage, forcing a smile that feels like breaking glass. "I'm so sorry about this. I wanted to see you properly, not like... this."
"These things happen," he says, his voice warm again. "Your sister is lucky to have you. Not many people would take on infant twins, even temporarily."
"Family is family," I say weakly.
"Tomorrow then. Shall we say two o'clock?" He's already backing toward the stairwell, the peonies still clutched in his hand like he forgot to give them to me.
"Two is perfect. Henri, the flowers…"
"Keep them," he says, setting the bouquet on the floor by my door. "Something beautiful for you in the midst of all this chaos. Until tomorrow, ma chérie."
I watch through the peephole as he disappears down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.
Only when I hear the exterior door close do I shut my own door and slump against it, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor. The twins are still crying, their wails now desperate and angry.
The divorce papers Adrian left three days ago are still spread across my kitchen table, unsigned, taunting me with their official seals and legal language. The peonies sit outside my door like an accusation.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to no one in particular. "I'm so sorry."
I push myself up and go to my babies. My daughter's face is red with rage, tiny fists flailing. My son has worked himself into hiccups between sobs.
I pick them both up, one in each arm, juggling their weight while my body aches from the c-section incision that's barely healed.
"Mama's here," I murmur, swaying with them. "Mama's sorry she's such a mess. Sorry she's lying to everyone. Sorry she can't figure out how to be."
I stare at those divorce papers while I rock my children. Adrian's signature is already there, bold and final. All I have to do is sign, and I'm free. Free to be with Henri—if he'd even want me once he knows the truth.
Free to be a single mother. Free to fail or succeed on my own terms.
But I'm not free, am I? I'm trapped between three lives—the mother I am, the woman Henri thinks I am, and the wife I technically still remain.
Each identity pulls me in a different direction, and I'm being torn apart at the seams.
The twins finally settle, their cries dying to whimpers, then silence.
Tomorrow I'll lie to Henri again. Tonight, I hold my children and wonder how many more lies I can tell before everything collapses.