I stepped closer to the table, my hands clenched inside my trouser pockets.

“I went to Maine yesterday,” I said. “I saw Maren. And I saw her children.”

Eleanor’s face did not change, but her hand remained hovering over her teacup for a second too long.

“Maren moved away after your divorce,” she said coldly. “What she did with her life afterward is of no concern to us.”

“They are my children, Eleanor,” I said, dropping the formal title.

She finally looked up, her blue eyes sharp and unblinking.

“You are infertile, Adrian,” she said, her voice smooth and even. “The medical reports from Dr. Mercer were very clear.”

“Dr. Mercer lied,” I said. “And you paid him to do it.”

The silence in the room grew heavy, punctuated only by the steady dripping of rain on the glass ceiling.

My mother did not deny it.

She did not flinch, nor did she look away.

Instead, she leaned back in her chair, her spine perfectly straight.

“Maren Caldwell was a nobody,” Eleanor said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “She was the daughter of a public school teacher from New Hampshire.”