"I just don't have anyone else."

My mother sat beside me.

"Yes, you do."

"Who?"

She didn't answer.

I already knew.

Trevor.

He was supposed to be home the next day.

But suddenly I realized something.

If he could leave four days before surgery, what else could he leave?

What if fatherhood became inconvenient?

What if every difficult moment became my problem?

What if this wasn't a one-time mistake?

I looked at my mother.

"Mom?"

"What?"

"I need to make a phone call."

The Man Trevor Hadn't Spoken to in Twelve Years

There was one person I had never met.

Trevor's father.

Frank.

Trevor hated him.

Not disliked.

Not resented.

Hated.

Frank had left Trevor's mother when she was pregnant.

According to Trevor, he disappeared.

He didn't come back.

Didn't call.

Didn't send birthday cards.

Didn't attend school events.

Didn't watch Trevor grow up.

Whenever I asked questions, Trevor became defensive.

"He abandoned us."

That was all he would say.

Eventually, I stopped asking.

But that night, sitting on the couch with my incision burning and two newborn babies crying nearby, I thought about Frank.

I had his number because, years earlier, Trevor's mother had given it to me in case of an emergency.

I'd never used it.

I stared at the number for almost five minutes.

Then I called.

It rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then someone answered.

"Hello?"

An older man's voice.

"Is this Frank?"

"Yes."

"My name is—"

He interrupted me.

"Trevor's wife?"

I froze.

"How do you know?"

"Nobody else would be calling this number at this hour."

I swallowed.

"I need help."

Silence.

"What happened?"