Chapter 6 - The Letter He Never Read
Then Grant finally asked, "Why didn't you tell me they were born?"
I looked at him steadily. "I did."
His eyes narrowed. "No. You didn't."
"I sent a certified letter to your attorney right after they were born. It had their birth records in it, along with a request that you contact me if you wanted to establish paternity."
He looked genuinely stunned. "I never saw that."
"Maybe not. It was delivered regardless." I'd kept copies of everything myself — not because I was quietly building some case for a confrontation eight years down the line, but because raising quadruplets alone teaches you to hold onto paperwork for absolutely everything.
"I also called the number I had for your unit's family liaison office," I added. "I was told, plainly, that communication needed to go through legal counsel from that point forward."
For the first time all evening, real certainty drained visibly out of Grant's face. Danielle looked at him directly. "You never checked?"
He didn't answer.
She asked again. "Grant. After Vanessa told you she was pregnant, you genuinely never once checked whether she'd actually had the baby?"
"I thought—" He stopped himself mid-sentence, and there was nowhere left for it to go. Danielle finished it for him. "You thought you couldn't possibly be wrong about it."
That was the exact moment I started genuinely liking her.
Later, I found Grant sitting alone in his father's study, surrounded by generations of Ashworth military history — portraits, medals, commendations, his own grandfather's flag folded and mounted behind glass. For the first time I could remember, he looked small underneath all of it.
"Vanessa."
"The boys are downstairs playing."
He nodded slowly. "Owen apparently beat my father at chess earlier."
"That sounds exactly like Owen."
A faint smile crossed his face, then disappeared. "Are you sure they're actually mine?"
I'd known that question was coming. "Yes."
"I want a DNA test."
"You're welcome to one."
His eyebrows lifted slightly, like he'd braced for a fight over it. "I'm not offended, Grant. A test doesn't scare me at all. But understand something. You don't get to demand proof and assume that proof hands you a relationship."
"They're my sons."
"Biologically. Yes."
"That has to mean something."
"It means a lot, actually. But being a father was never a rank someone hands you just for passing a test."
He looked away. "They're eight years old," I went on. "They have their own memories, their own fears, their own routines, their own private jokes with each other. Owen hates bananas with his whole chest. Miles sleeps with an actual screwdriver under his pillow, for reasons that make sense to exactly one person on earth. Colton pretends he's not scared of thunderstorms, but he absolutely is. Dean cries every single time a movie dog gets lost."
Despite everything, Grant smiled faintly at that. Then his eyes filled. "I have four sons."
"Yes."
"I missed all of it."
May you like
"Yes."
That answer clearly hurt him. I was done, by that point, softening the truth for his comfort.
