Chapter 56 Cal #2
What do you say to the fact that I’ve been carrying the knowledge of it for years, watching Silas navigate life without ever knowing I knew what had been stolen from him?
Silas’s expression goes dark. Dangerous. The kind of darkness that makes even me nervous, and I’ve seen Silas at his worst. “When Aria had me, she told me she’d had her medical team reverse the vasectomy while I was unconscious.”
“I’m sorry,” Parker looks at him wide-eyed, “she did what?”
“What the fuck?” is all I can think to say out loud.
“She wanted to have children together,” he huffs, “fucking worst situationship I’ve ever been in.”
“You think?” I chuckle, “What’d you tell her?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know the answer. Even though I can guess based on the look on his face.
“I told her I’d rather die,” Silas says flatly.
“And in a sick way, I almost did. But—” He stops, and for the first time since he started talking, I see genuine emotion crack through that clinical mask.
Vulnerability. Hope. Fear. All tangled together.
“The doctors at Mooresville confirmed it. She really did have it reversed. They explained the procedure, showed me the scans.”
He pauses, and I can see him choosing his words carefully.
“A vasectomy reversal reconnects the tubes that were cut. Success rates are high if it’s done within fifteen years of the original procedure.
But even with a successful reversal, fertility isn’t guaranteed.
The doctors said I’d probably need fertility treatments—hormone therapy to boost sperm production, possibly IUI or IVF to improve conception chances. But it’s possible now. If—”
He looks at Parker, and the vulnerability in his expression is almost painful to witness. “If you wanted more kids. If that was something you—if we—”
“Silas,” Parker breathes, and she’s off the couch before any of us can react, moving to him despite the way he tenses like he might tell her to back off.
But she doesn’t stop, just kneels beside his recliner, her hands on his face, forcing him to look at her.
“Are you telling me that Aria did one good thing in her miserable existence?”
“I don’t know if good is the word I’d use,” Silas says roughly, his hands coming up to cover hers. “She did it for her own reasons. To trap me. To force me into the life she wanted. To bind me to her in a way I could never escape.”
“But the result is the same,” Parker says, and her voice is fierce now. “You can have biological children now. If you want them. If we—” She stops, swallows hard. “If we wanted that.”
The air in the room is electric. Charged with possibility and hope and fear all tangled together in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
“Do you?” Silas asks, and his voice is barely above a whisper. “Want more kids?”
Parker’s quiet for a long moment, her fingers still on his face, her sea-glass eyes searching his like she’s trying to read something written in a language she doesn’t quite understand yet.
“I don’t know,” she admits finally, and I can hear the honesty in it. “I never thought—I mean, Noah and Liam are everything. They’re enough. They’re more than enough. But—”
She takes a shaky breath, and I watch her work through something complicated.
“But if you wanted to try. If you wanted to have that experience, to have a child that’s biologically yours, to know what it feels like to be there from the beginning—” Her voice breaks.
“I’d want that for you. For us. I’d want to give you that. ”
“I don’t need biology to make them mine,” Silas says, and there’s absolute conviction in his voice. The kind of certainty that comes from the soul. “Noah and Liam are already mine in every way that matters. They’re my kids. My boys. I’d die for them. Kill for them. I already almost did both.”
He stops, and I watch him struggle with something.
With wanting something he’s never let himself want before.
“But—yeah. If you wanted more kids. If we all decided that’s something we wanted to do together.
I’d—I’d want that too. I’d want to know what it’s like.
To be there. To choose it. To not have it thrust on me but to actually want it. ”
The silence that follows is profound. Heavy with the weight of possibilities we’re all processing.
I’m thinking about what this means. What it could mean. The four of us and the two boys we already have, and the possibility of more. Of building something even bigger than what we already are. Of Parker pregnant again, and this time all of us being there for it. All of us are choosing it together.
It’s terrifying and perfect.
“So we don’t need to open that file,” Parker says softly, gesturing to the screen where the unopened PDF still waits. “We already know what it says. Silas isn’t biologically related to Noah and Liam. But that doesn’t matter. It never mattered.”
“No,” Silas agrees, his voice rough with emotion he’s not bothering to hide anymore. “It never did.”
But I can see it in his eyes. The relief that he’s not biologically theirs—because some part of him still believes what his parents told him, that his genetics are poisoned, that he’d pass on damage to any child carrying his DNA.
The grief that he’s not biologically theirs—because some part of him wants that connection, wants to see himself reflected in them the way they can see Cal in Noah’s eyes and Jace in Liam’s.
The complicated tangle of emotions that comes from knowing you’re not biologically connected to the children you love, while simultaneously being grateful that you now have the option to create that connection if you choose.
It’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s human.
Jace clears his throat, breaking the moment before it can get too heavy.
“For the record,” he says, his voice rough but steady, “Silas has been more of a father to those boys in two months than most men are in a lifetime. Biology doesn’t make you a parent. Showing up does. And you’ve shown up every single day. You’ve shown up for them in ways that matter.”
“We all have,” I add, because it’s true. “We’re all their fathers. All four of us. That’s what makes this work. That’s what matters.”
Parker’s crying again, and this time I think it’s pure relief. Relief that we’re all on the same page. Relief that this isn’t ending in disaster. Relief that somehow, against all odds, we’re actually building something that works.
“So we’re doing this,” she says, and it’s not quite a question. “We’re really doing this. All of us. Together.”
“Yeah,” I say, and I can’t keep the smile off my face even though my eyes are doing something suspicious that might be tears but I’m choosing to ignore that. “We’re really doing this.”
“All of us,” Jace confirms, and there’s finality in his voice. A decision made and committed to.
Silas just nods, but the look in his eyes says everything he can’t put into words. Gratitude. Love. Hope. All the things he’s never been good at expressing but that we can all see written across his face.
We sit in silence for a moment, letting it all sink in. The confirmation. The revelation. The possibility of more. The fact that we’re really doing this—building a family out of chaos and violence and love that doesn’t follow any traditional rules.
Then, from up the hill, we hear it. Children’s laughter. High and bright and unmistakable. Noah’s voice shouting something about racing, Liam’s quieter response that still carries, Lottie and Jimmy, joining in with their own chaos.
Our kids.
All of them. In different ways. In ways that matter more than biology ever could.
“We should go get them,” Parker says, but she doesn’t move yet. Like she needs another moment to let this settle. “Bring them home.”
“In a minute,” Silas says, and he’s looking at all of us now.
Really looking. “I just—I need to say this. What my parents did to me, what they made me believe about myself—that I was too broken, too violent, too much of a monster to be a father—I carried that for thirteen years. Believed it. Made peace with never having children because I thought they were right.”
“They weren’t,” I say fiercely, because someone needs to. “They were wrong about everything. About you. About what you’re capable of. About what you deserve.”
“I know that now,” Silas continues, and his voice breaks slightly.
“I see it every time Noah laughs at one of Cal’s terrible jokes.
Every time Liam asks me a serious question and actually listens to my answer, like what I think matters.
Every time they both climb into my lap like I’m the safest place in the world instead of the monster I was raised to be. ”
He stops, swallows hard, and I can see him fighting to get the next words out. “You gave me that. All of you. You gave me a family when I thought that word would never apply to me. You gave me sons who look at me like I’m worth something. Like I’m not just a weapon. Like I’m—”
“Human,” Jace finishes quietly. “Like you’re human. Which you are. Which you’ve always been, even when they tried to convince you otherwise.”
Fuck.
I’m not crying. I’m not. But my eyes are definitely doing something suspicious, and when I look at Jace, I can see he’s in the same boat. His jaw is tight, his eyes are too bright, and he’s gripping the arms of his chair like they’re the only things keeping him grounded.
Parker’s full-on sobbing now, and she launches herself at Silas despite his wounds, wrapping her arms around him carefully but firmly.
“You’re not thanking us for letting you be part of this family, you idiot,” she says fiercely into his shoulder.
“You are this family. We wouldn’t be whole without you. We wouldn’t be us without you.”