The Fourth Heartbeat

Snow blew into the foyer, dusting the dark hardwood floors with white powder. Michael stood frozen, his hand still gripping the heavy brass doorknob.

"Grace," he said.

A woman in a beige wool coat stood on the porch, shivering under the glow of the outdoor sconces. She held the hand of a small boy bundled in a thick red scarf.

"I'm sorry to show up like this, Michael," Grace said. Her voice trembled against the Chicago wind. "I know it's Christmas Eve."

I stepped out of the living room, carrying two crystal wine glasses.

"Who is it?" I asked.

Michael didn't turn around. He stared down at the boy.

The child peered up from beneath a knitted beanie. He had Michael's square jawline. Michael's sharp, steel-gray eyes.

"Say hello, Leo," Grace nudged the boy forward.

"Hi," the boy mumbled.

"How old is he?" Michael asked.

"Four. He turned four in October."

October. Five years ago in January was when Michael and Grace ended their relationship. The timeline was a jagged piece of a puzzle that fit all too well.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Michael demanded.

"I wanted to raise him on my own," Grace replied, brushing snow from her shoulder. "But he kept asking for his dad this year. I couldn't lie to him anymore."

"Come inside. Both of you," Michael ordered, pulling the door wider.

"We can't impose," Grace said, though she immediately stepped across the threshold. "We have a hotel booked downtown."

"Cancel it. You're staying here."

"Michael," I interrupted, setting the wine glasses on the console table. "We have family coming tomorrow for dinner."

He finally looked at me. His expression held zero apology.

"This is my son, Anna. He's not spending Christmas in a hotel."

He knelt in front of the boy, ignoring me entirely. He helped Leo unwind the thick red scarf, his large hands gentle around the child's neck.

"I'm Michael," he told the boy.

"Are you my dad?" Leo asked.

"Yes. I am."

The sheer joy in his voice felt like a physical slap. I had never heard him sound like that. Not even when I told him about my first pregnancy.

"Maria, could you come here for a second?" Michael called out.

His voice wasn't raised, but it carried a sharp, crystalline authority that had our housekeeper scurrying into the hall immediately, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Yes, Mr. Sterling?"

"Prepare a room for Grace and Leo. They'll be staying with us."

"I'll have the east guest room made up," I told Maria.

"No," Michael countered immediately. "The east room is drafty. The heating vent in there rattles."

"It's perfectly fine for a few nights," I said.

"He's four years old, Anna. He needs a warm room." Michael pointed up the curved staircase. "Clear out the south-facing room."

The air in my lungs turned to ice.

"The south room is the nursery," I said.

"It's an empty room."

"It is not empty. You know exactly what is in there."

Grace placed a hand on Michael's forearm. "Michael, please. We don't want to cause trouble. The guest room is fine."

"You aren't causing trouble." He shook off her hand and faced me. "Anna, be reasonable. The room has been sitting there gathering dust for three years. Leo is a living, breathing child. He needs a proper bed."

"I don't let anyone in that room," I said. My voice dropped to a whisper. "Not even the maids."

"Then it's time to open the door."

"Michael, don't do this."

"Maria, go upstairs and pack up the toys," he commanded. "Move them to the basement."

Maria hesitated, looking between us.

Maria hesitated, her gaze flickering between the two of us, her hands trembling.

"Maria, I’m not going to ask you again," Michael said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register.

"Please take the boxes up and start clearing the space. Now."

Maria flinched at the 'please'—it sounded more like a threat than a request—and hurried up the stairs.

"I'll go help her," Michael said, marching after the housekeeper.

He left me standing in the foyer with Grace and the boy. The silence stretched tight between us.

"I really didn't mean to intrude," Grace said softly.

"Then you shouldn't have come," I replied.

"He's his father, Anna. You can't keep them apart forever."

"I'm not trying to keep them apart. I'm asking you to stay at a Marriott."

Grace adjusted her coat, her timid expression slipping just a fraction. "Michael wants us here. It's his house too."

I turned my back on her and walked up the stairs. My legs felt heavy, as if I were wading through deep water. The hallway felt miles long.

I stopped in the doorway of the south room. Maria was already pulling the dust covers off the rocking chair.

Michael stood by the window, yanking the blackout curtains open.

"You're being cruel," I told him.

"I'm being practical," he replied, not looking away from the glass. "You need to move on, Anna. Three miscarriages. The doctors said your chances are next to nothing. Why keep a shrine to something that isn't going to happen?"

"Because they were our babies."

"They never made it to term. Leo is here. He's real."

Two other maids arrived with flattened cardboard boxes. They quickly popped them open and started tossing in the plush bears, the tiny fleece blankets, the unopened baby monitors.

"Careful with that," I told a maid who grabbed a stack of picture books.

She paused, looking at Michael for direction.

"Just put it in the box," he told her.

"These are my things," I said, stepping into the room. "I bought them."

"And I paid for them," he shot back. "Pack it up."

"Put the clothes in the donation pile," Michael instructed another maid.

"No," I said. "Those were for Thomas."

"Thomas never took a breath," Michael said.

His words sliced through the air, sharp and unforgiving.

I stopped fighting. The tension drained out of my muscles, leaving only a hollow, echoing ache in my chest.

Maria approached the corner. She gripped the handles of the hand-carved wooden rocking horse.

I had bought that horse the day after my first positive test. I had sanded the rough edges myself, making sure it would be perfectly smooth for tiny hands.

"Leave the horse," I said.

"Take it downstairs," Michael ordered.

Maria lifted the heavy wooden toy. She carried it past me, her eyes cast down to the floor.

I didn't reach out to stop her. I just watched the wooden runners knock against the doorframe as it disappeared into the hall.

"Thank you," Michael said, his tone softening just a fraction. "I know this is hard. But it's for the best. Leo needs space."

He walked past me, heading back toward the stairs to join his new family.

I stood alone in the doorway of the empty room. Stripped of the toys and the blankets, it was just four bare walls.

I slid my right hand into the pocket of my cardigan. My fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper.

The lab results from this morning.

Positive.

I was pregnant for the fourth time.

And as I listened to Michael laughing with Grace and Leo downstairs, I realized I wasn't going to tell him.