Chapter 6 - TWENTY MINUTES WITH MY CHILDREN
I arrived at the family visitation center seventeen minutes early. I parked in the public lot, carried an approved diaper bag through the entrance, and signed in under my own name. No bodyguards came inside. Daniel waited at the office, following a schedule I had approved in writing.
The receptionist was a woman with short gray hair and reading glasses on a chain. She gave me instructions that would have sounded insulting to the version of me who used to control hundreds of employees.
“Wash your hands before touching the babies. Follow the caregiver's feeding notes. If either child becomes overwhelmed, we'll pause. You can ask the supervisor for help.”
“I understand.”
“It's fine if you're nervous.”
“I've never been this nervous in my life.”
She smiled gently. “That means you're paying attention.”
The room had pale yellow walls, a soft rug, and a basket of toys intended for older children. Two infant seats stood near a rocking chair. I recognized Sophie's stuffed lamb immediately. Its ear was folded the wrong way, as though she'd been holding it in her sleep.
Then the door opened.
A social worker named Ms. Bell entered carrying Sophie. Another staff member followed with Ethan. Claire wasn't in the room, though her handwritten instructions were attached to each carrier. I had agreed not to insist on seeing her. She had agreed to let me see the babies.
Sophie looked at me with enormous serious eyes. Her cheeks were fuller than when I'd last held her. Ethan blinked at the ceiling light, then turned his head toward the low sound of a fan.
I stood and could not move.
“Take your time,” Ms. Bell said.
I knelt beside the carrier. “Hi, Sophie. It's Daddy.”
She studied me as if I were a stranger at a bus stop. Then her lower lip trembled.
“May I?” I asked.
Ms. Bell nodded and guided my hands beneath her shoulders and neck. Sophie was warm and astonishingly small. I held her against my chest, and for the first time in days the hollow place beneath my ribs had a shape I could name.
She began to cry.
Not a dramatic cry. A frightened, uncertain one. The kind that asks where the familiar person has gone.
My instinct was to stand, move around, and fix the situation by doing more. Ms. Bell asked me to sit. She showed me how to support Sophie's head and keep my voice low. I hummed the tune Claire used, clumsily at first, then more steadily. Sophie quieted enough to look at me again.
I could not remember the last time I had been proud of doing something so small.
Ethan needed a bottle. The staff member reviewed the temperature, nipple, and pacing instructions. I had given dozens of speeches to investors without notes; now I felt grateful for a written chart telling me to pause every few minutes and watch my son's breathing.
He drank slowly, curled one hand around my finger, and fell asleep before finishing. His weight rested against my forearm. I stayed still, barely breathing, until Ms. Bell gently reminded me that a baby could sleep safely in the bassinet while I spent time with his sister.
The visit was only twenty minutes. They passed faster than any business meeting and slower than every sleepless night before it.
When the supervisor said it was time, I wanted to bargain. Ten more minutes. Five. One. I could have purchased the building and renamed it after both children. None of that would have changed their nap schedule or Claire's right to trust the arrangement.
I kissed Ethan's forehead and carefully returned him to his seat. Then I handed Sophie back, taking an extra second to memorize the way her hand opened and closed around the lamb's ear.
“Thank you,” I told Ms. Bell.
“For what?”
“For helping me not make this about me.”
She considered the answer. “Keep practicing.”
Outside, I sat in my car until the windshield began to fog. I cried then, not because anyone had denied me something, but because I had seen the children I loved and understood how much of their daily lives I had missed.
I called my mother and told her Sophie had gained weight. Teresa asked if Ethan still hated being put down after a bottle. I said yes. We spent ten minutes talking about their breathing, their soft hair, and the absurd seriousness of Sophie's expression. It was the longest conversation I'd had in months that contained no money, threats, or business decisions.
At home, Rebecca was waiting with a copy of the latest investigation update. A state agency had opened a formal inquiry into the transport fund, and hospital privacy investigators were reviewing the misuse of patient records. Priya believed Gavin had created shell consulting contracts to divert money. Vanessa's firm appeared to have received both legitimate campaign payments and suspicious transfers, though the specific criminal responsibility of each person remained to be established.
“Claire has agreed to provide a statement,” Rebecca said. “She found inconsistencies before anyone else did.”
“Of course she did.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I'm not surprised she found them. I'm surprised I spent months treating her questions as an inconvenience.”
Rebecca put down the folder. “You can tell her that eventually. Right now the most useful thing is not getting in the way.”
I went to the office the next day and discovered that Gavin had stopped coming in. His company phone was off. His access had been suspended, but the compliance team found evidence of a bulk download shortly before the suspension took effect. A lawyer for Gavin claimed the files were ordinary business records needed for his defense. Priya disagreed and preserved the logs.
Then a new problem arrived at the visitation center. Someone identifying himself as a private family driver had called to ask whether “the DeLuca babies” had a Thursday appointment. The receptionist refused to confirm anything. The caller had used a name associated with my old security contractors.
I felt anger snap through me. Somebody was still looking for Claire through the children.
Daniel asked if I wanted the number traced by our people. I told him to send the report to Rebecca and the center's safety coordinator. They could decide which agency should handle it. I had not spent twenty minutes learning to hold Sophie gently only to spend the next twenty proving I could threaten anybody who made me afraid.
That afternoon, Claire agreed to a short mediated telephone call. Naomi remained on her end; Rebecca remained on mine. There was no camera, no location information, no opportunity to force intimacy through a screen.
“I heard the first visit went well,” Claire said.
“It did.”
“Did Ethan eat?”
“Most of his bottle. He fell asleep on my arm.”
“He does that when he's comfortable.”
Her voice softened briefly, and I almost reached for the moment as evidence of forgiveness. Then I stopped myself.
“Claire, someone called the center pretending to be a driver,” I said. “I've reported it through the proper channels. You should hear it from me rather than from a security alert.”
“I know. Naomi told me. Thank you for not sending your people.”
The simple gratitude hurt more than anger would have. She was thanking me for obeying boundaries any decent husband should have respected without being instructed.
“I've been told you discovered the charity problem,” I said.
“I found it because parents in the waiting room were sharing bus fare,” she replied. “There was supposedly enough money to get them to appointments. One mother missed her baby's hearing assessment because she couldn't pay six dollars for the trip. Meanwhile the foundation brochure claimed thousands of rides.”
I closed my eyes.
“I brought you those numbers,” she continued. “You said Gavin handled the details.”
“I remember.”
“Then you'll understand why I won't be reassured by another promise that somebody else is handling things.”
“Yes.”
She was silent for a moment. “I don't know what you want from me, Adrian.”
“I want to become a father they can rely on. I want to tell the truth about what I signed. I would like you to believe someday that those aren't just words. But I don't expect you to decide anything today.”
She exhaled slowly. “That's the first thing you've said in a long time that doesn't demand an answer.”
The call ended shortly afterward. I sat with the receiver in my hand, letting the sentence settle.
That night, I cleaned the nursery myself. Not because the staff had neglected it; they had kept it spotless. I wanted to understand the ordinary inventory of our children's lives. I washed the two bottles Claire had left, replaced the old pacifiers, sorted the clothes by size, and wrote a list of what the twins would need as they grew. I didn't send the list to Claire. It was not a request for praise.
At eleven, Rebecca called with urgent news. Gavin had sent a statement through his lawyer denying wrongdoing and accusing my company of improper security practices. The statement included a claim that Claire's medical privacy complaints were unreliable because she had received psychological care after childbirth.
The allegation was not only cruel. It contained information Gavin should never have possessed or disclosed.
I could hear Rebecca turning pages. “Claire's counsel is taking steps to protect her privacy. We've given the regulators what we have. Do not contact Gavin.”
I watched the wooden stars turn over two empty beds.
“I won't,” I said.
Then the attorney added something I hadn't expected. “There's a second statement attached. Gavin says the plan to discredit Claire came from Vanessa. He claims she told him the only person Adrian DeLuca would believe over his wife was a woman he thought loved him.”
For a moment I couldn't breathe.
Vanessa had not made me betray Claire. I had done that willingly.
May you like
But someone had watched my weakness closely enough to make a weapon of it.
And the person who paid first had been my wife.
