25. Heidi
HEIDI
April comments beneath my statement from her verified account.
Her reply appears while I am feeding Ivy in my living room.
I read it once. Then again, checking the times against the hospital record and Dash's calls.
They match.
April does not call her sister manipulative. She does not defend Beau. She supplies the facts she witnessed and stops.
“Well?” Mom asks.
I hand her the phone.
She reads, lips pressed together. “That should help.”
“It should never have required a witness.”
Ivy comes off the breast and complains. I put the phone down, settle her again, and let the public argument continue without me for ten minutes.
I arrived at Saint Catherine's at 4:31 and told Beau to return to his wife. Staff were with Celeste. Mark and the doula were coming. I cannot speak to private calls I did not hear. I can confirm Beau had support available to leave.
Celeste calls her sister a traitor. April refuses to argue online. Beau republishes my statement without adding an apology aimed at harvesting sympathy.
The county does not become wise. Some people blame Celeste. Some blame Beau. Some blame me for staying undecided. What changes is that the public story can no longer erase the labor room.
One account deletes its claim that Beau fathered Celeste's child. Another reposts April's comment beneath the original corridor photograph. People who called me cold yesterday now call me strong, as though they have learned enough to award a new adjective.
I do not feel strong. I feel exposed and tired.
At the clinic, the principal tells me the calls have slowed. A parent apologizes for repeating a rumor. I accept the apology because I want the conversation to end, not because it repairs anything.
The story is finally closer to true. It still belongs to people who were never in the labor room.
Celeste deletes her original post but not before the screenshots have been copied. April sends me a private apology for failing to challenge her sister's earlier wording. I thank her for confirming only what she personally knew.
Beau asks whether I want him to pursue a legal response. I tell him not unless Celeste publishes something false or exposes the children. The truth is ugly enough. I do not want a lawsuit turned into another stage.
That evening, Beau comes for his scheduled time with Ivy.
Before he enters, he asks whether I want to discuss the posts.
“Not first.”
He nods and goes to wash his hands.
For the next forty minutes, the county does not exist. Ivy needs changing. Beau puts the clean diaper on backward, notices before I say anything, and looks offended by the design.
“The tabs are not subtle,” I tell him.
“They moved.”
“An advanced baby.”
He smiles.
When Ivy settles against him, he tells me that the school did not deserve the calls. He does not say I was brave online. I see the father he is becoming and the husband he failed to be. The two men share a body. Any future with him has to contain both facts.
“I hated posting it,” I admit.
“I know.”
“No, you saw the result. I sat there rewriting it because every sentence sounded like I was begging people to believe me.”
“I believe you.”
After Ivy falls asleep, Beau carries her to the bassinet and returns to the sofa.
“Do you regret posting the full statement?” I ask.
“No.”
“Not even the clients?”
“I regret losing them. I don't regret telling the truth.”
“Those are different answers.”
“They are both true.”
I study him.
“I am glad April confirmed the timing,” I say. “I hate that I needed her to.”
He sits near enough that I can reach him and far enough that I do not have to.
I move closer by one cushion.
The kiss happens in my hallway after his visit.
Beau has his coat on. I am holding the door handle, ready to end the evening. He says goodnight and looks at my mouth before forcing his gaze back to my face.
I have to swallow before I can speak.
“Wait,” I say.
He stops.
I put one hand against his chest and kiss him. His body goes still before his mouth answers mine. He keeps his hands at his sides until I catch his wrist and place one at my waist.
For several seconds, I remember exactly how it feels to be desired by my husband.
Then the corridor photograph flashes into my mind.
I pull back.
Beau releases me immediately.
“I'm sorry,” I say, hating the words as soon as they leave me.
“You don't have to apologize.”
“I wanted that.”
“I know.”
“And then I didn't.”
“I know that too.”
He leaves without asking which desire was the real one.