Untold truths

“You are smart. You are strong. And you are wonderfully made.”

Amelia whispers the words to her reflection, gripping the edge of the car’s rearview mirror like it’s a lifeline. The words feel heavier than they should, like a shield she’s forcing onto herself. She closes the mirror and inhales slowly, deliberately, willing her chest to rise and fall evenly. Her hands shake slightly. She’s been preparing for this moment for ten years, and yet now, as she sits in the quiet of her car, it feels impossible.

Her gaze drifts. And her stomach drops.

Jayceon’s truck sits a few spaces away, polished black, reflecting the bright morning sun like a sentinel watching over her.

“What are you doing here, Jayceon?” she asks, opening the door, her voice tighter than she wants. “I told you I was fine.”

“I know.” He steps closer, calm, steady, his presence grounding her. “I just need to make sure you’re steady before you go in there. And to let you know—I’m right here if you need me.”

He lifts her chin gently, forcing her to meet his eyes instead of the ground. “And remember—he’s high and—”

“—don’t forget to breathe,” she cuts in, rolling her eyes despite herself.

He smiles softly, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “You’ve got this, babe.”

For a moment, the fear melts. She allows herself to believe it, just enough to step out of the car. Every step toward the restaurant feels like walking on a tightrope, every breath measured, every heartbeat loud in her ears.

The restaurant is warm, a mix of rustic wood and soft lighting. The low hum of conversation, the clinking of cutlery, and the scent of garlic and grilled salmon fill the air. She should feel comforted. She doesn’t.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” the hostess asks as Amelia steps in, smiling politely.

“Yes, a reservation for Amelia,” she replies, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“Right this way.”

Amelia follows, shoulders straight, hands clasped in front of her, every movement deliberate. She notices the little things—the pattern of the floor tiles, the polished wooden tables, the subtle tint of sunlight through the windows—but all she can focus on is the tension crawling up her spine.

Once seated, a young man approaches, notepad in hand. “Hi, I’m Sam, your server this afternoon. What can I get you to drink?”

“A glass of water with lemon, please,” Amelia says quickly, wanting to anchor herself in the mundane.

“Any starters, or do you need a moment?”

“Yes… actually. I’ll take the six-piece hot wings with ranch and the spinach-artichoke dip.”

“I’ll have that right out, and I’ll be back to take your guest’s drink order.”

Then she hears it.

“Hey, Amelia.”

Her body stiffens. A familiar voice, smooth, arrogant, curling through the air like smoke. Her chest tightens, her hands tremble, her stomach knots. Slowly, she turns, forcing a polite smile.

“Hey… how are you?”

He hugs her, lingering just long enough to remind her of every memory she’s tried to bury. “I’m good. Really good. And you—still as beautiful as ever.”

The words feel like daggers wrapped in silk. She nods stiffly, polite but wary.

Silence stretches between them like a taut wire. She sits, forcing herself to speak. “So… how has life been treating you, Pierre? How’s your family… your mom… your sister?”

He leans back, faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Ten years. People changed. Some passed. I own a trucking company now. Married. Three kids.”

“That’s… great,” she says softly, truly meaning it. “Congratulations.”

“And you?” His tone oozes ego. “Still living the perfect life, I’m guessing?”

At that moment, Sam returns. “What can I get you to drink, sir?”

“Coke. Double shot of Jack Daniels. No ice.”

“Would you like any appetizers? Your wife already ordered—”

“That’s not my husband,” Amelia snaps, irritation sharp in her voice.

“Oh… my apologies,” Sam stammers.

“It’s fine,” Pierre says, smirking casually, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place.

Amelia steadies herself. “I’m happily married. Five years. I have four children. And I own my own salon—an entire building for women in the beauty industry.”

His eyes linger on her, a mixture of admiration and something darker. “Wow.” He places a hand over hers.

She yanks it away immediately.

The food arrives, each plate perfectly arranged. Pierre downs his shot in one smooth motion, eyes scanning the room like a predator. He flirts openly with a passing waitress, slips a napkin with a scribbled number into his pocket, and laughs—a harsh, careless laugh that twists the air around Amelia like smoke. Disgust coils in her stomach.

“So,” he leans in, voice low, dangerous, “why did you invite me here? Miss me?”

Her hands tighten around her fork. Her skin burns.

“Or… did you just want to prove your life is better than mine?” His grin twists sharp, mean. “Still sitting on your high horse, pretending you’re some kind of saint.”

She slams her hand onto the table. “And you’re still throwing shots back like vitamins,” she snaps. “Still a weak man who has to degrade women to feel powerful. You’re disgusting.”

His jaw tightens. “What did you just call me?”

“I invited you here because we have a son.”

The restaurant goes silent. Conversations stop mid-sentence. Heads turn. Pierre freezes for a fraction of a second, then laughs—loud, mocking, cruel.

“You’re lying,” he says. “You’re just trying to pin a kid on me because you don’t know who the father is. I want a blood test.”

Amelia slides a thick stack of papers across the table. “You’ve been served,” she says quietly, her eyes sharp. “I’m suing for full custody. I hoped you’d changed. I was wrong.”

Pierre’s hand shoots out, grabbing her arm violently. “You’re trying to ruin me—”

“Let her go,” Jayceon’s voice cuts through, calm but deadly.

Jayceon is there instantly, shoving Pierre back. “That’s not how you treat a woman. Especially not mine.”

Pierre laughs, trying to mask his anger with bravado. Until Jayceon drops him with a clean right hook—the kind that leaves no questions. Pierre hits the floor with a thud. Silence fills the restaurant.

“She is my wife,” Jayceon says, standing over him. “And that is my son. Stay away from my family.

Time stretches painfully. Six months later, Pierre signs over all parental rights. Amelia watches him, expression blank but eyes burning with relief and residual fury. The courtroom smells faintly of old wood and disinfectant. The clerk stamps papers with the finality of justice, and Amelia feels the weight lift from her shoulders, slowly, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Two months later, Jayceon adopts Jr., officially giving him his last name. Amelia sits in the adoption office, her hand over Jr.’s, squeezing it tightly. He looks up at her, eyes wide. “Mom… really?”

“Yes, baby,” she says, brushing his hair back. “You’re ours. All ours.”

The name on the birth certificate finally matches the love that has always been there. And for the first time in a decade, Amelia allows herself to breathe. Truly breathe