A woman named Celine, at that same address, had given birth to a baby boy.
My hands went cold.
No father was listed. But the baby’s middle name stopped my breath entirely.
Evan.
I sat completely still.
The maternity photographs had shocked me. That single word nearly broke me in half.
My son had died before his child was ever born. And somewhere, someone had made certain his name lived on anyway.
It took less than a day to find Celine after that. Her last name had changed, but the old address gave me enough threads to pull until I found a current profile online.
I stared at her photo for a long time before I finally typed a message.
“My name is Margaret. I’m Evan’s mother. I recently came across photographs of the two of you from 1999. I’d very much like to speak with you, if you’re willing.”
Her reply came almost thirty minutes later.
“You have a lot of nerve reaching out after what your son did.”
I read it twice before answering.
“Please. I think there are things neither of us knows.”
She agreed to meet that same afternoon.
Celine was already seated in the back corner of the coffee shop when I arrived — older now, of course, but unmistakably the woman from Evan’s photographs. She didn’t smile when I sat down.
“You really didn’t know about me?” she asked.
“No.”
My throat tightened.
“No, I didn’t.”
She looked away.
“That’s convenient.”
“I’m not lying to you.”
Celine crossed her arms.
“Evan knew I was pregnant. He knew everything. We were planning for that baby together.”
Her voice hardened.
“And then one day he just stopped calling.”
I stared at her, stunned.
“He disappeared on me.”
Her voice cracked, just slightly.
“I called. Nothing. I went to every place I knew he hung around. Nothing. I wrote to him. Nothing.”
She let out a bitter laugh.
“He got scared and ran.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I was his mother.”
“And I was carrying his son.”
The words hit hard.
