The hospital room where Cairo lay felt colder after my father left.
I stayed there a few seconds longer than I should have, staring at the empty hallway where Sergio and my brothers disappeared—almost like the ghost of them still lingered in the air. I used to imagine this mont... how it would feel if my past ever barged into the life I built.
I always told myself I’d feel nothing. That I had finally grown numb.
But the ache in my chest proved I was wrong.
I breathed slowly, straightened my shoulders, and forced myself to move. My children were waiting. They would be curious. And they had every right to be—they were my real family. The only people who were ever truly mine.
I pushed the door open and stepped back into Cairo’s room.
Paris and Egypt looked up instantly, relief softening their little faces the mont they saw .
"Mom," Egypt whispered with a pout, "you never told us we had handso uncles and a grandpa."
The word made my stomach twist. Grandpa. A title Sergio didn’t deserve yet my children said it so easily.
Cairo, still pale but awake, shifted on the bed. "Mom... Grandpa looked like he wanted to cry. Why?"
I froze. Not for long, but long enough for Cairo to notice.
For over five years, I raised Paris and Egypt without letting the shadows of my childhood touch their world. Five years pretending the Lincolms didn’t exist. Five years building a life clean of every bruise the past left on .
And now... they had questions I was never prepared to answer.
I pulled a chair closer to Cairo’s bed and sat down, trying to steady my heart.
"Co here.." I murmured.
Paris moved first, sitting beside with that quiet sharpness she always had. Egypt climbed onto the foot of the bed, hugging her sister’s legs. Cairo simply watched—silent, patient.
"Mom," Paris began softly, "that grandpa... he’s your dad, right?"
I nodded slowly. "Yes. His na is Sergio Lincolm."
"So... we have a grandpa on your side?" she asked.
"And uncles?" Egypt added brightly.
My throat tightened. I needed to be gentle, but honest.
"Yes," I said. "You do."
Paris bit her lip. "But why didn’t you ever tell us?"
My hands folded tightly in my lap.
"Because," I said softly, "my past with them wasn’t... happy."
The air went quiet.
Cairo looked up. "Did they hurt you, Mom?"
"No," I lied.
Paris narrowed her eyes. "Mom... you always look away when you lie."
I blinked. "I do?"
She nodded dramatically until her eyes almost crossed. Egypt burst out laughing. Even Cairo smiled. For one brief mont, I could breathe.
Then Cairo whispered, "Did Grandpa hurt you?"
Silence chilled the room.
"No," I said gently. "Not like that. He wasn’t cruel. He just... didn’t know how to love . He didn’t know how to be a father."
The kids absorbed that slowly.
"He was really kind to Cairo earlier." Paris murmured.
A sharp sting shot through .
"Yes..." I whispered. "He was."
He cared about them in ways he never cared about .
"Do you hate him?" Egypt asked quietly.
I hesitated. It wasn’t hate. Wounds that never close aren’t hate—they’re emptiness.
"I don’t want to hate him." I answered.
My childhood flashed through my mind, the suffocating silence of the Lincolm estate, the feeling of being present but unseen.
"My childhood wasn’t like yours," I continued softly. "I grew up feeling... alone. Unseen. And when I had you three, I promised myself with everything I had that you would never feel even a fraction of what I felt." My voice wavered. "But still... I failed you, Cairo."
I turned to him slowly, scared of what I might see.
But Cairo didn’t look hurt or confused. Instead, he looked at with a softness far too mature for his age. He reached out, his small hand curling around mine.
"You didn’t, Mom," he said gently. "I never felt alone. Not even once."
The words cracked sothing open inside , sothing heavy. His eyes were steady, sincere in a way only children could be. As if he was the one trying to hold together now.
My chest tightened painfully.
Egypt crawled into my lap, and I wrapped my arms around her.
For a mont—just one, everything felt right.
Then a soft knock sounded at the door, and it cracked open.
The kids turned as Dave peeked inside. He looked like he’d been waiting for a while... maybe waiting for the right mont to talk to .
So he didn’t leave after all. Maybe he wanted answers that badly.
The mont our eyes t, my stomach dropped.
Dave stepped in, calm on the surface, but his eyes betrayed sothing colder. Or maybe it was panic. Maybe both.
"We need to talk.." he said, voice controlled.
I stood imdiately, instinctively placing myself between him and the kids. "Dave, w-why now all of a sudden? There’s no one to watch my kids and—"
"My secretary is outside. She’ll watch them," he cut in. "So I need to talk to you. Now, Sylvia. Not later. Not when it’s convenient. Now."
"U-Uncle Dave... what’s wrong?" Egypt whispered. "Why do you want to talk with Mom?"
Paris grabbed Cairo’s hand, eyes suspicious and curious.
"Lower your voice the kids are watching." I warned Dave softly.
I sighed heavily. I didn’t want this conversation. But it was better than letting the kids get ideas.
He inhaled deeply. He nodded once, still tense but holding himself back.
"I’m s-sorry... I’m just—"
"No. Just go outside first," I cut in. "Let’s talk there. Wait for ."
Dave’s gaze lingered on the kids, just long enough for sothing in his expression to soften before he exhaled and stepped back.
"I’ll be right outside.." he murmured.
He closed the door quietly.
Silence pressed down on us.
Paris frowned. "Mom... is everything okay?"
"Yes.." I answered too quickly.
Even Cairo noticed.
I knelt down, smoothing Egypt’s hair. "Stay here. Be good. Uncle Dave just wants to talk about sothing... important."
"About Grandpa?" Egypt asked.
"No," I lied again. "It’s different."
Cairo’s eyes narrowed. "We’ll wait. Co back soon."
I nodded, even though my heartbeat was loud in my ears.
I stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind .
Dave stood a few steps away, arms crossed, face tight under the harsh white lights. He wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t looking at . He was thinking.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
"I’m trying," he said quietly, "to stay calm."
My throat tightened. "Dave—"
He raised a hand, stopping . "You don’t owe explanations. I know that. We’re not... close." His jaw flexed. "But I can’t ignore what I saw."
His voice was calm. Too calm.
He pushed off the wall, standing straighter.
"First..." his tone softened, almost hesitant, "...is your son okay?"
I blinked, surprised. "H-he’s stable. Just tired."
He nodded slowly, relief passing through him—briefly—before tension returned.
"Good.." he murmured.
Silence stretched.
Then his eyes searched my face.
"Sylvia... about the Lincolms... Sylvester... the chairman... I didnt an to suddenly learning about your childhood." His brow furrowed. " and the kids especially your son. I an—today felt like everything was thrown at once."
My breath caught. My hands curled at my sides.
"It’s complicated," I said quietly. "So it’s better for you not to know. Just forget what you saw today."
He sighed. "I’m not asking you to dig into your childhood. That’s not my place. But there’s one thing I can’t ignore."
He stepped closer, but not too close. Just enough to show sincerity.
"I just need to understand one thing."
His throat bobbed as he swallowed.
"When I saw your son today... I thought I was seeing Ro."
Heat rushed to my ears.
He quickly added, "I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Kids resemble people. I told myself it might be a coincidence. Paris and Egypt resemble Ro too..."
His voice trembled faintly. He shook his head.
"...but everything in says it isn’t coincidence. Your son’s face—everything—confird my hunch about Paris and Egypt... and now him."
I looked away, my mistake.
He noticed.
"Sylvia," he whispered, "I know I have no right to interfere. But despite what I already suspect, I still want to hear it from you. Why does that boy... look exactly like Ro?"
I stayed silent.
And silence was an answer.
Dave closed his eyes briefly, realization sinking in. When he opened them, they were not angry, they were the eyes of soone who finally understood everything.
"So he’s his," Dave whispered. "Ro... has a son he doesn’t even know exists?"
My chest constricted painfully.
"Sylvia," Dave stepped closer, voice low, "why are you hiding him? I get that you don’t want Ro in your life, and there’s Egypt and Paris... but this..."
A thousand answers curled in my throat—but fear swallowed all of them.
"Please... don’t tell him," I whispered. "Not yet."
Dave’s brows drew together, confusion and disbelief clashing in his expression.
"Sylvia... you can’t expect to keep sothing like this from him. Not now that he already knows about Egypt and Paris."
My heart stopped.
"W-what...?" My voice cracked. "What do you an he knows?"
"Ro isn’t dumb, Sylvia. He knows Egypt and Paris are his daughters. But he didn’t know he also has a son."
Weakness washed through .
If he knew about Paris and Egypt...Does that an he’s waiting and planning for the right ti to approach them?
Would he try to take them from ?
No. I can’t let that happen. He still has no proof. I can still use that.
But Dave... Dave knew too much now.
The Lincolm connection. The children, especially Cairo. Everything.
"Please don’t tell him, Dave," I begged, voice shaking. "Ignore what happened today. Act like you didn’t know about Cairo. Please. I’m not asking forever. I’m just... not ready."
"Not ready for what?" his voice barely whispered. "For him to know he has a son? Or for him to know you kept all his children from him?"
The question cut straight through . I looked away, blinking back tears.
Dave exhaled, long and broken.
"Tell ," he whispered. "Are you even planning to tell him? Or are you asking to stay silent forever?"
I said nothing. I just looked farther away—afraid to et his eyes.
Dave didn’t need words.
His next breath left him like a wound.
"...Are you serious, Sylvia?"
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