My Children, My Choice
She gave a soft laugh, clearly forcing herself to stay composed. "Touché. Still, I thought you didn’t want the family involved. Yet here you are, flaunting a black card like you're already one of us."
I turned, finally looking her in the eye. "I didn’t come here to flaunt anything. I came to buy decorations for my children’s birthday. The same children your family didn’t even know existed."
Tamara folded her arms. "People are going to talk, you know."
"They already do."
"And they’ll want to know why the mother of the Vaughn heirs is out here... playing house."
My jaw tightened. "They’re not heirs. They’re kids. Seven-year-olds who just want balloons and cake and a mother who won’t flinch when someone like you sneers at her."
Tamara blinked. "You’re really going to keep them away from all of it? The name. The legacy?"
I took a step forward. "Do you want to know what legacy I remember? A man with a cane who beat his grandson until he forgot how to feel. Women like you whispering behind champagne glasses about girls who weren’t 'good enough.' A family so proud of its name they forgot how to be human."
She said nothing.
I smiled tightly. "My kids will never sit at that table. Not unless they choose to. And not until they know the cost."
Tamara looked at me for a long second, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Maybe realization. Maybe resentment.
Then she stepped back, her voice cooler now. "Just remember, Remi... when they grow up, they might ask why you kept them from it."
I didn’t hesitate.
"My kids. My choice. Their life, their choice. Not yours."
Tamara’s lips twitched, like she wanted to say more but couldn’t find anything sharp enough. She turned with a flip of her hair, storming out of the store like the place was beneath her—which, funny enough, was exactly how I’d treated her ten minutes ago.
The moment the door jingled shut behind her, Laura looked up at me with a grin. “Mummy, that was so cool.”
Larry added, “You sounded like one of those courtroom lawyers in movies.”
I snorted. “Remind me to never take you two into a courtroom.”
We paid for everything—balloons, unicorn piñata, party throne, and yes, even the ridiculous inflatable T-Rex—and packed it into the trunk with the kids still buzzing from the drama.
After all that, we stopped at a small diner nearby. Nothing fancy—just fries, milkshakes, and the kind of food that made kids forget the world existed outside ketchup and cartoons. I was sipping my coffee when my phone buzzed.
Jo.
I picked it up. “Hey, you won’t believe what just happened.”
Her voice cut through quickly. “I’ll let you tell me later, but listen—you’ve been requested.”
I blinked. “By who?”
“The health officials. The ones handling research restoration. They want to meet. Today. Apparently there was an internal review. They’re reconsidering everything.”
I sat straighter. “You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack. They’re calling it an emergency discussion. I already booked you for 4:30. If it goes well, they’ll reverse the shutdown.”
I covered the receiver for a second, grinning. “Jo. You’re a wizard.”
“I know,” she said smugly. “Also... you’ve been requested at St. Maren’s. Emergency neuro-op. Dr. Adeyemi insisted.”
“Tonight?”
“Yep. Surgery's scheduled for 8:00 PM. You’ll need to be prepped by 7.”
I exhaled slowly, my brain already rearranging everything. “Alright. No problem. We’ll make it work.”
There was a small pause.
“Jo?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you going to keep avoiding me about the pregnancy?”
Silence.
I could almost hear her blinking on the other end.
“Don’t start,” she muttered.
“Too late.”
And before she could deflect again, I added, “You’re going to have to talk eventually.”
There was a long pause on the line—so long I thought she might hang up.
Then finally, a quiet sigh. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
I leaned back in the booth, one hand still curled around my coffee cup. “Jo.”
“I’m serious, Remi. It wasn’t planned. We weren’t even talking like that, not really. It was just… one night. One moment.”
“With Callum,” I said, even though I already knew.
She groaned. “Ugh. Don’t say his name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re writing it down in a medical chart.”
I smiled faintly. “Sorry. Habit.”
There was another beat of silence, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. “He was going through something. We both were. And we didn’t talk about it afterward. I thought it was over. Until it wasn’t.”
“Do you want to keep it?” I asked gently.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, and this time her voice cracked. “Part of me does. But I’m scared, Remi. I don’t want to do this alone.”
“You won’t,” I said instantly.
“You say that now,” she whispered. “But when it gets real—when I start showing, and work gets hectic, and people start asking questions—I don’t want to become someone’s responsibility. I don’t want pity.”
“You won’t get pity from me,” I said firmly. “You’ll get a nursery and late-night check-ins and backup snacks in your drawer.”
She laughed wetly. “God, you’re such a mum.”
“Damn right I am.”
A breath passed between us, warmer this time.
“I haven’t told him yet,” she added quietly. “And I don’t know if I will.”
I didn’t push. I knew better.
“Then we’ll take it one day at a time,” I said.
She exhaled. “Thanks, Remi.”
“Always.”
****
After the surgery, I went home—stressful, drained, and somehow still wide awake.
The procedure had been delicate. A tumor wrapped too close to the brainstem, the kind of case that demanded precision, no mistakes, no room for even one skipped beat. It had gone well, but it had pulled every last thread of focus and energy I had left.
Now, standing at the front door, I didn’t even have the strength to turn the key quietly. I let it click loud and clear.
Inside, the lights were dimmed. Not dark. Just warm. Golden.
There was a scent in the air—not food, not candles. Something fresher. Clean.
Lavender.
I frowned, sliding the door shut behind me.
“Remi?”
Rowan’s voice drifted in from the hallway, low and warm. And then he appeared, barefoot in soft gray sweatpants and a fitted black tee. His hair was tousled like he’d been running his hands through it all evening.
I tried to speak. My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“Come here,” he said.
And I did. Slowly. My bag slipped off my shoulder onto the floor as I walked into his arms like it was muscle memory.
He wrapped me up without a word. Held me close.
No questions. No commentary.
Just his warmth against my skin and the solid beat of his heart.
“Rough day?” he mu
rmured against my hair.
I nodded against his chest.
He pulled back just enough to look at me. “Come upstairs.”
“Rowan—”
“Just trust me.”
So I followed him.
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