“Are the children inside?”
Julian’s expression softened. “Yes.”
“Can I see them?”
“No.”
I swallowed.
“I’m their father.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I have reason to believe—”
“You have a photograph.”
His voice remained calm, but there was firmness beneath it.
“Two and a half years ago, Evelyn arrived in Boston with two infants and a suitcase. She had no money, no family here, and no interest in being found. I met her at the resource center. I helped her find housing, a job, and medical care. Over time, we became friends.”
He paused.
“She never told me who the children’s father was.”
I looked at him sharply.
“You knew they weren’t yours?”
“Not biologically. But I became their parent in every way that mattered.”
“And then you married her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Julian’s eyes lowered for a moment.
“Because we loved each other. Because we built something good. Because the children deserved stability. Because Evelyn had spent years believing that if she trusted the wrong person, everything she loved could be taken from her.”
