Brook
The afternoon sunlight filtered through the living room curtains, casting warm
geometric patterns across the hardwood floor where Preston had constructed an
elaborate network of roads for his collection of toy trucks. I shifted on the couch,
trying to find a position that didn't make my back ache, one hand resting on the
swell of my belly where Sofia had been doing somersaults all morning. "Mama,
look!" Preston's voice was pure joy as he crashed a red dump truck into a blue
pickup. "Big accident!" "Oh no," I said, smiling despite the discomfort. "Do we need
to call the ambulance?" He was already making siren noises, his dark curls—so
much like Tyson's—bouncing as he raced a white van to the rescue. My heart
swelled watching him. Four years old and already so imaginative, so full of life.
Tyson's son in every way that mattered. Our son. The doorbell rang, and I groaned
softly as I leveraged myself off the couch. Seven months pregnant felt like carrying
a bowling ball that had taken up permanent residence on my bladder. Preston
barely looked up from his trucks as I waddled to the door. Celeste stood on the
porch, her blonde hair perfectly styled, designer sunglasses perched on her head.
Tyson's little sister—though at eighteen, she hated being called that. She'd always
been beautiful in that effortless way that made me feel frumpy even on my best
days, and today, swollen and sweaty in maternity leggings and one of Tyson's old
t-shirts, I felt the comparison acutely. "Celeste," I said, forcing warmth into my
voice. "This is a surprise. Come in."
She'd never liked me—that much had been clear from the moment Tyson
introduced us six years ago. I'd tried everything: inviting her to lunch, asking about
her interests, complimenting her accomplishments. Nothing worked. She remained
polite but distant, her smiles never quite reaching her eyes. But she was Tyson's
sister, and I k ept trying. "Thanks." She st epped inside, her gaze swe eping over the
toy-strewn living room with barely concealed disdain. "Preston, sweetie, say hi to
Auntie Celeste." "Hi!" He waved without looking up, already absorbed in his play
again. "Can I get you something to drink?" I asked, closing the door. "Water? Iced
tea?" "No." Celeste turned to face me, and something in her expression made my
stomach clench. "I'm not here for a social visit, Brook." The way she said my
name—like it tasted bitter—sent a chill down my spine despite the warm afternoon.
I glanced at Preston, still happily playing, then back at her. "Okay," I said slowly.
"What's going on?" "I need ten thousand dollars." I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" "For
my Europe trip this summer. I need ten thousand dollars, and you're going to give it
to me." Her voice was casual, like she was asking to borrow a cup of sugar.
"Celeste, that's... that's a lot of money. If you need help, maybe you should talk to
Tyson, or your parents—"
"I'm talking to you." She took a st ep closer, and I instinctively backed up, my hand
moving protectively to my belly. "Because if you don't give me the money, I'm going
to tell Tyson that Preston isn't his son." The world tilted. For a moment, I couldn't
breathe, couldn't think, couldn't process what she'd just said. The words hung in
the air between us, impossible and cruel. "What?" The word came out as barely a
whisper. "You heard me." Celeste's lips curved into something that might have been
a smile on anyone else. "Ten thousand dollars, or I tell my brother the truth about
his son." "There is no truth!" My voice cracked, rising despite my effort to ke ep it
steady. Preston looked up, and I forced myself to lower my volume, my hands
shaking. "Preston is Tyson's son. I have never—I would never—" "Does it matter?"
Celeste examined her manicured nails. "Once I plant that seed of doubt, do you
really think your perfect little marriage will survive? Tyson will look at Preston
differently. He'll look at you differently. Every time you're five minutes late, every
time you don't answer your phone, he'll wonder." Tears burned my eyes. "How can
you do this? He's your brother. Preston is your n ephew. We're family ." "You're not
my family," she said coldly. "You're just some girl my brother married. And I want to
go to Europe." "Get out." My voice was steadier now, fueled by a rage so pure it
momentarily eclipsed my fear. "Get out of my house right now." "You have until
Friday to—" "GET OUT!" I was shaking, my whole body trembling with fury and
terror and heartbreak. "I won't give you a single cent. Not one. And if
you ever come near my family again—" "Your family?" Celeste laughed, a sharp,
brittle sound. "We'll see how long that lasts." She headed for the door, then paused,
looking back over her shoulder. "You'll regret this, Brook. You really will." The door
closed behind her with a soft click that felt deafening in the sudden silence.
"Mama?" Preston's small voice broke through my paralysis. "Why are you crying?" I
hadn't realized I was. I wiped my cheeks roughly, trying to pull myself together as I
sank down onto the floor beside him, my pregnant belly making the movement
awkward. "I'm okay, baby," I managed, pulling him into my arms. He smelled like
apple juice and the lavender detergent I used on his clothes. "Mama's okay." But I
wasn't okay. My mind was racing, spinning through impossible scenarios. Would
Celeste really do it? Would Tyson believe her? He knew me, knew I loved him, knew
I'd never betray him. But doubt was a poison, and once introduced, it spread. I
should tell him. I should call him right now and explain everything before Celeste
has a chance to twist it into something ugly. But the thought of telling him that his
sister—his baby sister—had tried to blackmail me, had threatened to destroy our
family over money for a vacation... it would break his heart. He adored Celeste,
made excuses for her coldness, and always believed she'd warm up to me
eventually. Sofia kicked hard against my ribs, as if reminding me she was there,
d epending on me to ke ep this family safe. Preston squirmed in my embrace,
wanting to return to his trucks, and I let him go, watching him play with blurred
vision. My beautiful
boy. Tyson's son in every way—his smile, his laugh, his stubborn determination
when building his roads just right. I had three days until Friday. Three days to
figure out what to do. Three days to decide whether to tell my husband that his
sister was trying to destroy us, or to stay silent and pray that Celeste was bluffing.
Either way, I was terrified.