Before I could speak, two children ran into the small hallway behind her.

A boy and a girl, both with my dark hair and my father’s bright blue eyes.

“Mom, who is at the door?” the boy asked, holding a plastic toy boat.

The girl stood slightly behind him, clutching a sketchpad.

“Noah, Lila, go back to the kitchen for a moment,” Maren said, her voice trembling.

The boy, Noah, squinted up at me.

“You look like the man in the old picture,” he said.

My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe.

I looked at my children, the life I had been robbed of standing right in front of me.

“I’m Adrian,” I said, my voice cracking as I looked down at them.

Lila took a step forward, looking from me to her mother.

“Is he our dad?” she asked.

Maren didn’t answer right away; she simply looked at me with a mixture of anger and deep, old sorrow.

“Yes, Lila,” Maren finally said. “This is your father.”

I knelt on the wooden floor, my knees hitting the braided rug.

Noah took a tentative step toward me, holding out his toy.

I reached out, my fingers brushing his warm, small hand.

The realization of my mother’s cruelty settled deep into my bones, cold and heavy.

I spent an hour in that cottage, speaking in quiet tones, trying to process the magnitude of the theft.

Maren kept her distance, her posture defensive, watching my every move.

“You have to leave now,” Maren said eventually, looking out the window as the afternoon light began to fade.

“I will come back,” I said. “I want to be in their lives, Maren.”

“We will talk about that later,” she replied, her voice flat. “Go back to your wife, Adrian.”

The mention of Celeste felt like a physical blow.