Page 38 of When Love Found Us
“Hey, Therese,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’m back. I know I should’ve come sooner, but . . . it’s been an interesting week.” His gaze flicks to me. “Here, meet Blythe. She’s new in town. I think you would’ve loved her.”
I glance at the stone, then back at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression. A kind of quiet reverence that makes my chest go tight.
“Who is Therese?”
“She’s probably my stepmother,” he responds. “I’m not really sure how to classify her.”
That catches me off guard. I blink at him, confused. “So your dad married her after your mom died? I didn’t know you and your brothers lost your mother.”
Atlas shakes his head. “No. She was my brothers’ mother. I came later.” A humorless smile ghosts his lips. “I assure you, my mom had no idea my father already had a family in Vermont.”
“Oh.” The pieces click together.
He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. As if it hasn’t shaped every part of him. “Mom died when I was six. My father had no other choice but to bring me to Vermont. To them, his family.” His jaw tightens. “It was hell.”
Something cold slithers down my spine. “Did he?—?”
Atlas exhales sharply, gaze fixed on the tombstone. “Me? Less than everyone else.” His voice is flat, detached. “I grew up with the fear that I’d be next. He was horrible with them. Malerick hid us when he could.”
Us.
My stomach twists. “Did she . . . protect you?” I ask hesitantly.
His silence stretches long enough that I almost regret asking.
“It was complicated. She couldn’t protect us,” he finally says. “Like your husband, my father assumed he owned her. So no. He wasn’t gentle. Not with her. Not with his sons.”
I grip my arms, my nails digging into my sleeves, trying to contain the nausea rising in my throat.
Atlas lets out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. “I used to take care of her when she cried. I’d make tea—like I did with my mom when she wasn’t feeling well before she . . . died.” His voice wavers slightly like he’s somewhere far away. “I didn’t know what he was doing to her. I just knew she was hurting. And she needed someone to take care of her.”
I swallow hard. “You took care of your mom while she was dying?”
He nods once. “As best as I could. She was sick, and it was just the two of us when Dad traveled. Which he did a lot.”
The way he says it—so matter-of-fact—makes my stomach turn. A six-year-old boy, alone in a house with his dying mother. A child who had to grow up before he even had a chance to be one.
“My brothers bullied me because I was a bastard,” he continues. “Ledger—he hates me more than everyone else. Thinks I stole his place in the family. Never understood that I was never part of it, to begin with.”
I glance at the tombstone again, a lump forming in my throat. “Was she a horrible stepmother?” The words come out hard, bitter. I’m ready to spit on her grave.
But Atlas shakes his head.
“No,” he says quietly. “She was kind to me. Almost like a mother. Our relationship was . . . strange. She was like an aunt. A friend. Something.” He exhales, his fingers flexing against mine. “She died three years ago. One night, when she was dying, I asked her why she was always so nice to me.”
His throat bobs, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
“She said I was hers. That even though my origin was painful, I was part of her heart.” His words land with a force I wasn’t expecting. “She did her best to care for me, even when she hated my parents. Even when her sons wanted nothing to do with me.”
I look at Atlas then, really look at him.
Atlas—the man who grew up in a house that never wanted him. Who learned to survive in a family that never saw him as one of their own. The man who carries scars he doesn’t talk about, who still shows up, still fights, still cares—even when the world has given him every reason not to.
“You’re not what I expected, Atlas Timberbridge,” I sigh, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
He doesn’t react, not in the way I expect. No smirk, no quick-witted comeback. Nothing.
“What I wanted to tell you,” he says, voice measured, like he’s walking a tightrope, “is that even when we didn’t share anything, she learned to love me. She took care of me.” His gaze drifts to the headstone, something flickering in his expression. “I’m not saying it’s the same, but . . . this baby is part yours, and you might?—”
