She answered the door wearing gardening gloves, surprise flashing across her face.
“Sophie says she has a brother,” I said bluntly. “That he lives here.”
Helen’s face drained of color. Slowly, she removed her gloves. “Come in.”
We sat in the living room, surrounded by framed photos of Sophie. I searched Helen’s expression for the truth.
“Is there a child Evan never told me about?” I asked.
Tears filled her eyes. “No,” she said softly. “Not the way you’re thinking.”
She took a steadying breath. “Before you and Evan met, he was in a serious relationship. They were young, but hopeful. When she became pregnant, they talked about names and dreams.”
My stomach twisted.
“It was a boy,” Helen continued. “But he was born far too early. He lived only a few minutes.”
The silence felt crushing.
“Evan held him,” she said. “Long enough to remember his face.”
There was no funeral. No headstone. Just grief, quietly carried. The relationship ended soon after, and Evan never spoke of it again. But Helen never forgot.
“He was still my grandson,” she said. “I couldn’t forget him.”
She led me outside to a small flower bed in the backyard, marked by a softly chiming wind chime. She tended it every year. Sophie had noticed. When Sophie asked why the flowers mattered so much, Helen told her they were for her brother—someone who belonged to the family, even if he wasn’t alive.
That night, after Sophie was asleep, I told Evan everything. He closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I wanted to protect our life from that pain.”
I took his hand. “We’re meant to carry things together.”
