3. Ivy
IVY
T he morning air in Boston carried a chill that hadn't existed in Bar Harbor.
I stood at the kitchen counter, watching steam rise from my coffee cup while the triplets ate their cereal at the breakfast table.
Sammy had managed to get more milk on his shirt than in his mouth, while Chrissy methodically arranged her cheerios into perfect rows.
Elena sat quietly between them, her hazel eyes—so startlingly familiar when I caught them in certain light—focused on the spoon in her small hands.
Three years. Three years I had kept them safe from this world, from these complications, from the questions that would inevitably come.
Now we were back in the house where I had grown up, surrounded by the suffocating elegance of my mother's interior decorator and my father's need to control every detail of our lives.
"Ivy." She stepped forward and wrapped me in a hug that felt both familiar and foreign. "God, you look exactly the same."
I didn't. Three years of sleepless nights and single motherhood had carved lines around my eyes that hadn't been there when I left Boston.
My body had changed, my perspective had shifted, and the girl she remembered had been buried under layers of responsibility and secrets I couldn't share with anyone.
"Thank you for doing this," I said, stepping back to let her into the foyer. "I know it's short notice."
"Are you kidding? I've been dying to meet them." Lauren's eyes lit up as the triplets appeared at the bottom of the staircase, peering through the banister rails. "Hi there."
The introductions went smoothly enough. Sammy warmed to her immediately, chattering about his toy trucks, while Elena remained reserved but polite.
Chrissy studied Lauren with the intense scrutiny she reserved for new people, her little face serious as she decided whether this stranger could be trusted with her carefully ordered world.
We settled in the living room while I went through the routine—nap times, snack preferences, emergency contacts. Lauren listened attentively, occasionally asking questions about allergies or favorite activities. The normalcy of it felt strange after so many months of handling everything alone.
"So," Lauren said when I finished, her voice taking on the careful tone people used when they wanted to ask personal questions without seeming intrusive. "You've been in Maine this whole time?"
"Bar Harbor." I folded the paper with the pediatrician's number and placed it on the coffee table. "It's quiet there. Good for them."
"And their father?"
The question arrived quietly, without fanfare, but it wasn't unexpected.
I had been waiting for it—from Lauren, from my parents, from everyone who would eventually learn about the triplets' existence.
The prepared answers I had rehearsed felt inadequate now, sitting in this room where I had once believed my biggest problem was convincing my father to let me study abroad.
"That's not important," I said.
Lauren's expression shifted, concern replacing curiosity. "Ivy, you know you can talk to me, right? Whatever happened?—"
"I said it's not important." The sharpness in my voice surprised both of us. I forced a smile, the practiced expression I had perfected during three years of deflecting questions from well-meaning neighbors and acquaintances. "Some things are better left in the past."
The uncomfortable, heavy silence stretched between us. Lauren nodded slowly, understanding that this particular door had been closed and would not be opened again. She turned her attention back to the children, asking Chrissy about the book she was clutching, and the moment passed.
But the damage had been done. The easy familiarity we had shared in high school felt strained now, marked by the realization that I had become someone she didn't recognize. The girl who had shared every secret with her best friend had learned to keep the ones that could destroy everything.
I left them in the living room and retreated to the kitchen to gather my purse and keys.
My hands shook as I checked my phone for the address of my new job—a temporary position at a company I hadn't bothered to research.
The agency had called yesterday afternoon while I was sitting in the hospital waiting room, watching my mother sleep off the effects of her latest treatment.
I had accepted the position without asking questions because I needed work immediately, needed the distraction and the income and the excuse to leave this house every day.
My father found me there, standing by the kitchen island with my back to the doorway. I didn't hear him approach, but I felt his presence—the way the air seemed to thicken when William Whitmore entered a room with an agenda.
"We need to talk." The talk he intended to have would not be happening now, and hopefully not soon, either. When he got called away on a work emergency three days ago, I reveled in the reprieve. There was no way I was opening that box today before I started my new job.
I turned to face him, noting the rigid set of his shoulders beneath his expensive suit jacket. His gray hair was perfectly styled, his tie knotted with military precision, his expression that of a man accustomed to getting answers to his questions.
"I'm going to be late for work," I said.
"This conversation is three years overdue.
" He moved closer, his voice dropping to the tone he used in business negotiations when he wanted to intimidate his opponents.
"You disappeared without explanation, kept my grandchildren from me, lied to your mother and me for years. I think I deserve some answers."
"You deserve?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "I don't owe you anything."
His jaw tightened. "You owe me the truth. Who is their father, Ivy? Was it that boy from college? The one who called here looking for you after you left?"
"No." Shame danced in my chest and flushed my cheeks. He was taking a stab and missing, but when he saw them I saw the recognition on his face. Maybe he was just in denial.
"Then who? Someone from Maine? Someone you met after you ran away from your responsibilities here?"
Each question felt calculated to corner me, to force me into revealing information I had protected for three years. I remained silent, watching his frustration build as he realized his interrogation tactics weren't working on me anymore.
"You've embarrassed this family," he said finally. "Sneaking around, having children out of wedlock, lying about where you were and what you were doing. Your mother has been beside herself with worry, and you?—"
"Don't." The word came out low and dangerous. "Don't you dare blame me for Mom's condition."
"I'm not talking about her cancer. I'm talking about the stress you've put her through, the sleepless nights wondering what happened to her daughter, whether you were safe, whether you were?—"
"I was twenty when I left." My voice rose despite my efforts to keep it level. "Twenty and scared and completely unprepared for what was happening to me. I did what I thought was best."
"Best for who? Certainly not for your family."
The accusation hit its mark, settling into the guilt I had carried for four years. He was right, in part. I had made my choices based on fear and shame, not rational consideration of who might be hurt by my silence. But admitting that would open doors I couldn't afford to unlock.
He was violently angry when I let it slip at nineteen years old that I didn't think dating a man Duncan's age would be horrible. When I let it slip after my cousin’s wedding, on a night I had a few underage drinks, that Duncan was a good-looking man.
Dad threatened to send me away to a college out of state just to "protect my innocence".
I knew what telling him I was pregnant would do to this entire family. I kept my secret for a reason.
My mother appeared in the doorway, her silk robe tied loosely around her diminished frame.
The chemotherapy had stolen twenty pounds from her already small body, leaving her looking fragile and ethereal.
Her blonde hair, once her pride, was hidden beneath a soft pink scarf that matched the shadows under her eyes.
"Bill." Her voice carried a warning. "That's enough."
"She needs to tell us the truth, Barbara. We have a right to know."
My mother moved past him to stand beside me, her hand settling gently on my arm. The touch was warm and reassuring, a reminder that not everyone in this family communicated through demands and ultimatums.
"Sweetheart," she said quietly, "was it someone you loved?"
The question was asked without judgment, without the aggressive edge that had characterized my father's interrogation. It was the voice of a mother trying to understand her daughter's choices, trying to bridge the gap that three years of silence had created between us.
I looked into her eyes—blue where mine were hazel, kind where my father's were calculating—and felt the familiar ache of guilt that had followed me to Maine and back again.
She deserved better than the daughter who had disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving only a note saying she needed time to figure things out.
But love? Had I loved Duncan when I crawled into his bed that night, desperate and reckless and convinced that I could handle the consequences? Had I loved him when I discovered I was pregnant and chose to disappear rather than face the destruction that honesty would bring?
"It doesn't matter," I said.
The disappointment in her expression was worse than my father's anger. She had hoped for connection, for understanding, for some explanation that would make sense of the choices I had made. Instead, I was giving her the same wall of silence I had perfected over the past three years.
I picked up my purse and keys, moving toward the kitchen door before either of them could continue the interrogation.
My father called my name, his voice sharp with command, but I didn't turn around.
Some conversations could only end with someone walking away, and I had learned that lesson long before I left Boston.
The drive across the city took longer than expected, traffic thick with morning commuters and construction delays.
I sat behind the wheel of my minivan, fingers gripping the steering wheel as I replayed the confrontation with my parents.
The questions would continue—today, tomorrow, every day until I either gave them the answers they wanted or found a way to deflect them permanently.
The address led me to a sleek office building in the financial district, its glass facade reflecting the gray October sky.
I had worked in similar buildings during college internships, navigating the maze of corporate hierarchies and professional expectations that came with my father's world.
The familiarity should have been comforting, but instead it felt suffocating.
I parked in the visitor section of the underground garage and took the elevator to the lobby. The receptionist, a woman in her fifties with perfectly styled silver hair and a warm smile, checked her computer when I gave my name.
"Walsh Strategic," she said, handing me a visitor's badge. "Fifteenth floor. Take the elevator bank on your right."
Walsh Strategic. The name meant nothing to me—though it did make my skin prickle.
I had accepted the position without bothering to research the company, focused only on the immediate need for employment.
As the elevator climbed toward the thirty-second floor, I tried to remember if my father had ever mentioned the name in his business conversations but came up empty.
The doors opened to reveal a reception area decorated in subtle grays and blues, expensive but understated. A young woman with dark hair and a professional smile approached me immediately.
"Ms. Whitmore? I'm Jennifer, Mr. Walsh's strategy lead. Thank you for coming in on such short notice."
Walsh. The name finally registered, sending a chill through my chest that had nothing to do with the building's air conditioning.
I followed Jennifer through a maze of cubicles and office doors, my mind racing as I tried to convince myself that it was a coincidence, that there were probably dozens of Walshes in Boston's business community.
But deep down, I already knew. The sick feeling in my stomach, the way my hands had started to shake—my body was recognizing what my mind was still trying to deny.
Jennifer stopped at a door marked with a brass nameplate that read Duncan Walsh, CEO . She knocked twice, then opened the door without waiting for a response.
"Mr. Walsh? Ms. Whitmore is here for the interview."
She gestured for me to step inside and quietly shut the door behind me.
Duncan stood near the window, his back to the door, his tall frame silhouetted against the Boston skyline.
He wore a charcoal suit that was clearly tailored, his dark hair showing more silver than I remembered.
When he turned at the sound of my entrance, our eyes met across the expanse of his office.
Time stopped. The carefully constructed walls I had built around the memory of him crumbled in an instant, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in ways I had forgotten were possible.
His blue eyes were exactly as I remembered—sharp, intelligent, and now filled with a recognition that matched my own shock.
My breath caught in my throat. My spine stiffened. For a moment that felt eternal, neither of us moved at all.