The windshield wipers of my ’98 Civic were losing.
They flopped back and forth, smearing the gray Chicago deluge across the glass, a frantic, rhythmic squeak that matched the pounding in my chest. 7:42 AM. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Eighteen minutes. I had eighteen minutes to get from the gridlock of the Dan Ryan to the employee lot at Vilmont Industries, clock in, and pretend my world wasn’t balancing on a knife’s edge.
Frank Morrison. My supervisor. His face, the color of a cheap-suit maroon, flashed in my mind. He’d cornered me by the time clock on Tuesday. “Late twice in three weeks, Tate. You think this is a charity? One more time. One. More. Time. And you’re done. I don’t care what your excuse is. You’re done.”
He didn’t know, or care, that my daughter June’s babysitter had called in sick, that finding a replacement at 6 AM was a frantic miracle, that I was running on four hours of sleep and the fumes from a half-empty gas tank. He didn’t care that this job—this mind-numbing, fluorescent-lit logistics job—was the first stable thing I’d had since my wife, Claire, passed away. It was health insurance. It was June’s science fair supplies. It was the rent check that was already three days late.
“Just get there, Jasper,” I muttered, my own voice tight. “Just get there.”
I merged onto Industrial Boulevard, the tires hissing on the flooded asphalt. My stomach felt like it was full of wet cement. I rehearsed my apology—”Frank, the traffic was…”—but knew it was useless. Frank didn’t operate on explanations. He operated on power.
Through the curtain of rain, I saw them. Hazard lights. A pulsing, weak orange against the oppressive gray.
A silver Mercedes. Hood up. Steam, or maybe just rain hitting a hot engine, rising into the cold October air.
And next to it, a woman.
My foot instinctively eased off the gas. She was pregnant. Not just a little pregnant, but very pregnant. She had one hand pressed against the small of her back, the other holding a phone to her ear. She was soaked. Drenched to the skin in a simple dress that offered no protection from the weather. Her shoulders were hunched, her face twisted in a mask of distress and cold.
Keep driving.
The voice in my head was pragmatic. It was Frank’s voice. You can’t afford this, Tate. Not her. Not today. Someone else will stop.
I accelerated slightly. 7:44 AM. Sixteen minutes.
But then she shifted, turning just enough for me to see her profile. She winced, a sharp, sudden pain, and her hand moved from her back to her belly, a protective, desperate gesture.
It was like a punch to the chest.
Claire. Seven years ago. Standing in our tiny apartment bathroom, her hand on her own growing belly, her eyes—God, her eyes—so bright with joy and absolute terror. “What if I’m not good at it, Jass? What if I mess it up?”
“We’ll figure it out together,” I’d promised her.
Now, I was alone. And this woman on the side of the road was alone.
My car slowed, pulling onto the gravel shoulder with a sickening crunch. I cursed. Loudly. Then I grabbed my faded, slightly-broken umbrella from the back seat—the one with the missing spoke—and stepped out into the downpour.
The cold hit me instantly, a physical slap. The rain wasn’t just falling; it was attacking. “Ma’am?” I called out, jogging toward her. The spray from passing trucks soaked my pants to the knees. “Are you okay?”
She turned, startled. Her eyes were wide with worry, brown and intelligent. She looked young, maybe early thirties. But there was a hardness in her expression, a weariness that looked out of place on her delicate features. It was the look of someone who’d learned not to trust easy help.
“My car… it just died,” she said, her voice shaking. The wind whipped her hair across her face. “It just… stopped.”
“And this rain,” she winced again, pressing both hands against her belly. “I called roadside assistance. They said… they said forty-five minutes.”
Forty-five minutes. In this. In her condition. It was unthinkable.
“Here,” I said, pushing the umbrella over her head. It barely covered us. “Please, sit in my car. It’s warm. You can’t stand out here.”
She hesitated. Her eyes scanned my face, my old jacket, my beat-up car. It was an appraisal. Quick, sharp, and thorough. I felt like she was reading my credit report with a single glance.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Jasper Tate,” I said, trying to offer a reassuring smile, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. 7:46 AM. “I work just up the road. Vilmont Industries. Logistics. I started three weeks ago.” I fumbled for my wallet, pulling out my employee ID like it was a police badge. “Look. I have a daughter. Eight years old. I know… I know you can’t be out here. Please.”
Something in my rambling, desperate introduction must have worked. The skepticism in her eyes softened, just a fraction. Not trust, but maybe the beginning of it.
She nodded, a single, jerky motion. “Okay.”
I walked her to my Civic, her hand gripping my arm tightly. She moved with a pained stiffness. I settled her in the passenger seat, the old springs groaning in protest. I ran back to my side, shedding the umbrella, and slid in, soaked and dripping. The car smelled like wet wool and anxiety.
I cranked the heat, the fans rattling in complaint. I handed her a clump of napkins from the glove compartment.
My watch read 7:51 AM. Nine minutes.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice steadier now that she was out of the wind. She dabbed at her face, but it was pointless. “I’m Abigail.”
“When are you due?” I asked. Small talk. Anything to keep my eyes off the clock.
“Six weeks,” she replied. She was rubbing her belly in that unconscious, circular motion. “I was just heading to a prenatal appointment. A final check-up.”
I noticed the worry lines around her eyes, the slight tremor in her hand. “First child?”
She nodded, and a shadow crossed her face. “Yes. I’ve been… really careful. Maybe too careful.” She let out a short, bitter laugh. “Taking time off work, following every single guideline. No caffeine, no stress.” She gestured to the dead Mercedes. “And then this happens. On Industrial Boulevard. In a flood.”
“Cars break down,” I said softly. “It’s not a sign. You’re doing everything right.”
Abigail looked at me for a long, quiet moment. “You’re kind. Your wife must appreciate that.”
The words just hung there in the small, warm car. The drumming of the rain on the roof seemed to get louder. My chest tightened. “My wife… she passed away. Two years ago.” I cleared my throat, the sudden thickness surprising me. “Heart condition. Rare. Sudden.” I stared through the windshield. “It’s just me and June now. My daughter.”
Her expression crumpled. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”
“You couldn’t know.”
“That must be incredibly difficult,” she said, her voice quiet, genuine.
“We manage,” I said, shrugging. But the word felt hollow. “June… she’s strong. Stronger than I was at her age. Stronger than I am most days, if I’m honest.”
We sat in silence for another minute. The rain was relentless.
I checked my watch. 8:02 AM.
My stomach dropped into my shoes. I was officially, irrevocably late. Frank would be at his desk, staring at the empty chair in my cubicle. The dread was so thick I could taste it, metallic and sour.
“You should go,” Abigail said, noticing the gesture. Her voice was firm. “You’re late for work. You’ve done more than enough. I’ll be fine here. The car is locked.”
I looked at her. Pregnant, alone, her ride forty minutes out, in a car that could be dead-bolted but was still just a metal box on the side of a dangerous road.
I shook my head. “No. I’m not leaving you here. Not like this. My supervisor… he’ll just have to understand.”
Even as I said it, I knew it was a lie. Frank Morrison wouldn’t understand. Frank didn’t understand anything that didn’t fit into his narrow, miserable view of the world. He was a man who saw rules as weapons.
She studied me again, and this time, her gaze was different. It wasn’t appraising. It was curious. “Tell me about June,” she said quietly.
I felt myself relax, just a fraction. Talking about June was the only thing that felt real anymore. “She’s… she’s amazing. Smart as a whip. Wants to be a scientist.” I smiled, the first real smile in days. “She has this science fair coming up on Thursday. She’s building a volcano. One that actually erupts. She’s been locked in her room for weeks, very secretive about the ‘magma formula.'”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She is.” And for a moment, I forgot about the time. I forgot about Frank. I forgot about the rent. I just talked about my daughter. I told her about the time June tried to “fix” the toaster by rewiring it with tinfoil, about how she read chapter books by flashlight under her covers.
Abigail listened, her head tilted. She talked about her pregnancy, the morning sickness, the strange cravings. But I noticed she kept things vague. She never mentioned a partner. Never said “we” are excited. It was always “I” am preparing, “I” am worried. There was a loneliness in her words that I recognized. It was the same loneliness I saw in my own mirror every morning.
When the tow truck finally arrived, a massive, comforting beast with flashing yellow lights, it was 8:35 AM.
I helped her transfer her things, made sure the driver understood she was going to Northwestern Memorial for an appointment, not just a garage.
“Thank you, Jasper,” Abigail said, standing by the taxi the tow driver had called for her. She squeezed my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “Not many people would have stopped. Especially not today. You risked your job.”
“Take care of yourself,” I replied, forcing a confidence I didn’t feel. “And that little one. It’ll be okay. Supervisors are human. He’ll get it.”
As I drove away, I glanced in my rearview mirror. She stood there, one hand on her belly, watching my car disappear into the rain. There was something in her expression… troubled, almost. Like she knew something I didn’t.
I pushed the thought away. I had to face Frank. It would be fine. It had to be.
I clocked in at 8:47 AM.
My clothes were still damp, plastered to my skin. The third-floor logistics bay was quiet, the only sound the click-clack of keyboards and the hum of the fluorescent lights. Everyone was pretending to be busy. Too busy. Sarah from accounting wouldn’t meet my eye. Mark, the coordinator in the next cubicle, suddenly found his spreadsheet fascinating.
Frank Morrison was waiting by my desk. He wasn’t red-faced. He wasn’t shouting. He was worse. He was calm.
His arms were crossed over his barrel chest, his tie pulled just a little too tight.
“Tate,” he said. The word came out flat, dead. “My office. Now.”
My stomach turned to ice. This wasn’t a warning. This was a sentencing.
I followed his broad back down the hallway, the industrial carpet muffling my steps. His office was a glass-walled box that smelled of stale coffee and old resentment. He didn’t sit. He didn’t invite me to. He just stood there, arms still crossed, jaw working silently.
“Forty-seven minutes,” he said, staring at a spot on the wall just over my shoulder. “Forty-seven. Minutes. Late.”
“Frank, I can explain. Please,” I started, my voice sounding weak.
“I don’t want to hear it,” his voice was cold now, controlled. That was the scary part. The lack of yelling. “I told you on Tuesday. I warned you. Twice before that. You think the rules don’t apply to you, Tate? You think you’re special?”
“No, Frank. Of course not. It’s just… there was a woman. On the side of Industrial Boulevard. Her car broke down. She was pregnant, Frank. Heavily pregnant. Stranded in the rain. I couldn’t just…”
Frank laughed.
He actually, genuinely laughed. It was a short, barking sound that held zero humor. “A pregnant woman? That’s your excuse? That’s the best you could come up with?” He finally looked at me, his eyes small and mean. “You know how many pregnant women there are in Chicago, Tate? You planning to stop for all of them? You starting a private taxi service?”
“She was in distress. The baby… I mean, it was cold, she was… ”
“I don’t care,” Frank snapped, his voice suddenly rising. “I don’t care if she was giving birth on the side of the road with the President watching. You have a job. You have responsibilities. You show up on time, or you don’t show up at all. It’s that simple.”
He reached for a manila folder on his desk. It already had my name on it. He’d been waiting for this. Hoping for it.
“Three strikes, Tate. You’re out. Pack your desk. Security will escort you out in ten minutes.”
The words hit me like physical blows. My knees felt weak. “Frank. Please. You can’t. I need this job. My daughter… my daughter’s health insurance…”
“Should have thought about your daughter before you decided to play Good Samaritan,” he said, opening the folder and signing a form at the bottom with a flourish. “You’re a liability, Tate. I need people I can count on.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. What could I say? What argument could possibly penetrate that armor of indifference?
Nothing.
I turned and walked out. The next ten minutes were a fog. I went to my cubicle. The security guard, a guy named Mike who I’d chatted with about the Bears last week, stood nearby, arms crossed, face impassive. He was just doing his job.
I packed my few personal items into a cardboard box. A photo of June, smiling with a missing front tooth. A coffee mug she’d decorated with superhero stickers. A small, half-dead succulent plant.
My “coworkers” kept typing. No one said goodbye. No one said, “Tough break.” They just stared at their screens, their silence a deafening roar of self-preservation. They had their own jobs to protect.
Mike walked me to the elevator. He pressed the button for the lobby. “Sorry, man,” he muttered as the doors opened.
When I walked out of the Vilmont Industries building for what I thought was the last time, the rain had stopped. The sun was trying to break through the clouds, sending weak, watery shafts of light through the gray. It felt like a cruel joke.
I sat in my car in the parking lot for twenty minutes. I didn’t move. I just pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, the plastic cool against my skin. I tried to figure out how I was going to tell June. How was I going to explain that the stability I’d promised her, the security I’d fought so hard to build after her mom died, had just crumbled?
All because I stopped to help someone.
My phone rang. The screen displayed “June’s After-School.” My heart seized. I let it go to voicemail. A moment later, a text. A reminder that next month’s payment was due on the first. A payment I couldn’t make.
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about Claire. But I knew exactly what she would have said. Her voice, clear as a bell in my memory. “You did the right thing, Jass. You always do the right thing. We’ll figure out the rest.”
But she wasn’t here. And I had no idea how to figure out the rest.
The next two days were brutal. Humiliating. I sent out seventeen applications. I polished my resume, trying to make “three weeks at Vilmont Industries” sound like a strategic career move instead of a catastrophic failure. I had three phone interviews. They all went nowhere. “We’re looking for someone with a more stable work history, Mr. Tate.” “We’ll keep your resume on file.”
I smiled for June. I took her to the park. I helped her with the papier-mâché for her volcano. But she knew. Kids always know.
“Are you okay, Daddy?” she asked, her small face creased with a worry that no eight-year-old should have to carry. Her eyes, so much like Claire’s, seemed to see right through me.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” I lied, the word tasting like ash. “Just a little tired from the new job.” The lie was automatic, a reflex to protect her. But it just made me feel worse.
On Thursday afternoon, I’d just finished another discouraging call—this time for a night-shift stocking job that paid two dollars less than Vilmont—when the doorbell rang.
I wasn’t expecting anyone. I opened it to find a woman standing on my crumbling porch. She was in her fifties, with sharp, intelligent eyes and graying hair pulled back in a severe but elegant bun. She wore a tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my car. She carried herself with a quiet authority that suggested she was used to being listened to.
“Mr. Jasper Tate?” she asked, her voice polite but firm.
“Yes?”
“I’m Janet Powell. I’m the head of Human Resources at Vilmont Industries. May I come in?”
My first thought was that they wanted me to sign something. A non-disclosure agreement. A final termination paper to make it official. My second thought was that maybe Frank Morrison had decided firing me wasn’t enough. Maybe he wanted to twist the knife, to tell me I owed them for the security badge or the box I’d used.
I led her into the small living room, painfully aware of the worn-out couch and the faint smell of macaroni and cheese. June was in her room, “working on her magma.”
Janet Powell sat on the edge of the couch, placing a thick, cream-colored envelope on the coffee table between us. She didn’t seem to notice the state of the apartment.
“Mr. Tate,” she began, her voice warm, but professional. “I’m here about the… situation on Monday.”
“Look,” I said, holding up my hands. “If this is about the termination, I’m not planning to cause any trouble. I understand the policy. I was late. It’s done.”
“Mr. Tate,” Janet interrupted gently, a small smile playing on her lips. “Our CEO has personally reviewed the circumstances of your termination.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Our CEO,” she repeated, “found Mr. Morrison’s actions to be… let’s say, ‘completely unacceptable.’ She has ordered your immediate reinstatement, with full back pay for the days you’ve missed.”
The words made no sense. I heard them, understood each one individually, but strung together they sounded like a foreign language. “The… the CEO?” I managed. “But how would she even know about me? I’m… I was… a logistics coordinator. On the third floor. I’ve never even seen the CEO.”
“Miss Cross is ordering your reinstatement,” Janet continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Additionally, she would like to offer you a different position entirely.”
“A different position?”
“Her Executive Assistant.”
I must have looked as dumbfounded as I felt. Me? Executive Assistant? To the CEO?
Janet smiled, and this time there was something knowing in that smile, something that suggested she was in on a secret I couldn’t begin to guess. “Miss Cross has her ways of finding things out. She is particularly interested in employees who demonstrate… let’s call it ‘exceptional character’ and ‘sound judgment under pressure.'”
“I don’t understand,” I stammered.
“The position comes with a significant salary increase,” Janet said, sliding the envelope toward me. “And comprehensive benefits. Health, dental, vision. An educational stipend for dependents. The full package.”
An educational stipend. For June. For college.
“I still… I don’t understand why,” I whispered.
“You will,” Janet said, standing up. She was all business again. “Monday morning. 9:00 AM. Report to the executive floor. The 22nd floor. My assistant will meet you.” She paused at the door, turning back. “Trust me, Mr. Tate. This is an opportunity you don’t want to miss. Miss Cross will explain everything herself.”
After she left, I sat alone in my living room for a long time, just staring at the envelope. It felt like a bomb. Inside were reinstatement documents. A new contract. A salary number that made my eyes water and my hands shake.
None of it made sense. It felt like a dream. A prank.
But as I read through the contract for the third time, making sure it was real, making sure I wasn’t hallucinating from stress and sleep deprivation, one thought kept circling through my mind.
Who was Abigail Cross? And how did she know about me?
Monday morning arrived like a fever dream.
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, adjusting my tie for the fifth time. It was my only good tie. The one I’d worn to Claire’s funeral. It felt like an impostor’s costume.
June appeared in the doorway, her backpack already on her shoulders, her volcano project clutched in her other hand. “You look nice, Daddy. All fancy.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said, crouching down to fix her hair. “Is this about the new job? The one on the high-up floor?”
“Yeah. It is.”
She put her small hands on my shoulders, her expression deadly serious. “Are we going to be okay now?”
The question broke my heart and mended it at the same time. I pulled her into a hug, burying my face in her hair. “Yeah, June Bug,” I whispered, my voice thick. “We’re going to be okay.”
The 22nd floor of Vilmont Industries was a different planet. Where the third floor was all practical industrial carpet, buzzing fluorescent lights, and the smell of microwaved lunches, the 22nd floor was silent. Polished marble floors that reflected the floor-to-ceiling windows. The windows themselves overlooked the entire Chicago skyline, Lake Michigan sparkling in the distance. It was the kind of view that made you feel small and powerful all at once.
The receptionist, a young man with hair so perfect it looked sculpted, stood immediately when I stepped off the elevator. “Mr. Tate. A pleasure. Miss Cross is expecting you. Right this way.”
My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. I felt like a fraud. Every person I passed wore a suit that was sharper, shoes that were shinier, an expression that was more confident than I had ever felt in my life. I followed the receptionist down a hallway lined with contemporary art I didn’t understand. Everything here whispered of power, of decisions made in wood-paneled rooms that affected thousands of lives.
The massive oak double doors at the end of the hall stood slightly ajar. The receptionist gestured for me to enter, then, with a crisp nod, disappeared.
I pushed the heavy door open.
The office was stunning. A corner suite, windows on two sides bathing the massive space in natural light. A huge, modern desk sat facing the windows. And in the black leather chair behind it, a woman sat with her back to me, looking out at the city.
“Miss Cross?” I said, my voice sounding small and thin in the cavernous space.
The chair swiveled, slowly.
And my entire world tilted sideways.
It was Abigail.
The pregnant woman from the rainy morning.
But it wasn’t the vulnerable, distressed woman I’d helped. This was Abigail Cross, CEO of Vilmont Industries. She was composed, powerful, and wearing an elegant black suit that was clearly custom-tailored to accommodate her pregnancy. She didn’t look vulnerable. She looked regal.
“Hello, Jasper,” she said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Surprise.”
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You’re…”
“I am.”
“But… you were… on the side of the road. Your car…”
“Broke down. Yes,” she confirmed, standing slowly, one hand resting on her belly. “And you were on your way to work. Late, as I recall.”
“You… you were on maternity leave,” I stammered, pulling a line from Janet Powell’s mysterious explanation.
“Doctor’s orders,” Abigail confirmed. “Reduce stress. Rest. Prepare for the baby.” She moved around the desk, and I noticed she was barefoot, a pair of practical flats tucked neatly under her chair. “But after you helped me that morning, I couldn’t shake this feeling. Call it intuition, call it paranoia. Something told me I needed to come back. Just to check on a few ‘urgent matters.'”
“I don’t… I…”
“I came in that evening,” Abigail continued, her eyes never leaving my face. “After my appointment. I asked Janet Powell to look into the kind logistics coordinator who’d mentioned working at Vilmont. The one who’d risked his ‘final warning’ to help a stranger.” She paused, her smile fading. “Imagine my surprise, Jasper, when I discovered that Frank Morrison had fired you. That very morning. The same day you saved me from standing in the rain for forty-five minutes. While pregnant.”
I sank into one of the chairs opposite her desk. My legs had suddenly forgotten how to support me.
“You came back to work… because of a feeling?”
“I’ve learned to trust my instincts, Jasper. They’ve rarely been wrong.” She gestured around the vast office. “They built this company. They’ve saved it more than once.” Her expression softened. “And they told me you were someone special. Someone this company—someone I—couldn’t afford to lose.”
“Anyone would have stopped,” I said weakly.
“No,” Abigail said, her voice firm, absolute. “They wouldn’t. I’ve run this company for twelve years. I’ve seen what people do when they have to choose between their own interests and someone else’s need. Nine times out of ten, they choose themselves. You didn’t. You risked your job. A job I now know you desperately needed. You risked it all to help a stranger. I couldn’t just let that go.”
“And… Frank Morrison?” I had to ask.
“Mr. Morrison is exploring new opportunities,” Abigail said, a glint of steel in her eyes. “Effective immediately. We have a zero-tolerance policy for that kind of management. Or at least, we do now.”
She sat down, gesturing for me to pull my chair closer. “Now, about your new job. I wasn’t lying. I need an Executive Assistant. But more than that, I need someone I can trust. Someone who does the right thing, even when it’s the hard thing. That’s a rarer skill than you can imagine.”
The first few weeks as Abigail’s EA were a whirlwind. It was like learning to swim by being dropped in the middle of Lake Michigan. Abigail Cross was brilliant. She was demanding. She worked at a pace that would have exhausted someone half her age, let alone a woman in her third trimester.
She was back at work full-time, throwing herself into projects with an intensity that felt almost… desperate. I was completely out of my depth. I was organizing calendars for international meetings, sitting in on board calls, managing correspondence that involved millions of dollars. But I learned. I learned to fake competence until it became real.
And gradually, carefully, in the long hours after the 22nd floor had gone dark, we began to know each other.
“Why did you really come back?” I asked her one evening. It was past 8:00 PM. The cleaning crew had long since finished. We were reviewing quarterly reports, and she looked exhausted.
Abigail paused, her pen hovering over a document. Her hand rested on her belly. “Honestly?” she said, looking out at the city lights. “Being alone with my thoughts all day was… harder than I expected. Work has always been my anchor. My safe place.”
“But the baby needs you to rest,” I said, then immediately cringed. It wasn’t my place.
“I know,” she said sharply, then softened. “I’m sorry. I know you’re just concerned. It’s… it’s just this pregnancy. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
Abigail set down her pen. She was quiet for so long I thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, “Can I tell you something in absolute confidence, Jasper? Something not even Janet knows?”
“Of course.”
“I chose to have this child alone,” she said slowly, watching my face for a reaction. “Through IVF. With donor sperm. There’s no father waiting in the wings. No partner to call if something goes wrong. It’s just… me.”
I remained silent, sensing there was more.
“I’m thirty-six,” she continued, her voice low. “I wanted to be a mother more than anything in the world. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t trust anyone enough to do it the traditional way.”
“What do you mean?”
She let out that same, bitter laugh I’d heard in the car. “My college boyfriend? Stole my thesis work. Published it under his name. Got an award for it. I almost didn’t graduate.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “My ex-fiancé, the one I thought I’d spend my life with, he emptied my bank accounts to fund a gambling habit. Took everything I had saved before I built Vilmont.”
She paused, her jaw tightening. “My last serious relationship… he was married. I didn’t know. Not for two years. His wife called me one day. Called me things I won’t repeat.”
“Abigail…”
“So, I decided I’d have my baby alone,” she finished, her voice flat. “No risk of heartbreak. No one to let me down. No one to steal from me or lie to me or use me. It’s just safer. It’s pathetic, I know.”
“No,” I said, leaning forward. “That’s not pathetic. That’s brave. It takes real courage to choose motherhood alone. And it takes even more courage to trust someone with that truth.”
Her eyes filled with tears, shocking me. This powerful, composed woman. “You’re the first person I’ve told. Besides my doctor.”
“I’m honored,” I said softly.
“You’re different, Jasper,” she said, wiping at her eyes angrily. “You genuinely care about people. Not because you want something from them, but just… because it’s who you are.” She placed a hand on her belly. “This baby… this baby is so lucky. Because even though you’re not his father, I know you’ll look out for him. You’d look out for anyone who needed it.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just reached over and squeezed her hand. We sat in the quiet office, the city humming 22 floors below, two lonely people bound by a rainy morning.
The call came on a Wednesday afternoon, three weeks later.
I was in my own adjoining office, reviewing contract proposals. I heard a sound—a sharp, strangled gasp.
I ran into her office. Abigail was gripping her desk, her face contorted in pain, the color drained from her cheeks.
“Abigail?”
“Something’s wrong,” she gasped, her eyes wide with terror. “The baby, Jasper. Something’s… something’s terribly wrong.”
What happened next was a blur. Primal fear. I grabbed her coat, my phone, the emergency “go-bag” she’d kept prepared by her door for weeks. I half-carried her to the elevator.
I drove through downtown Chicago with my hazard lights flashing, one hand on the horn, the other reaching over to hold hers as she sobbed through contractions that were coming way too fast.
“It’s too early,” she kept saying, her voice a strained whisper. “It’s only 34 weeks. It’s six weeks too early. It hurts, Jasper. It hurts so much. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
“We’re almost there,” I promised, my voice steady even as my hands shook on the wheel. “Hold on, Abigail. Just hold on.”
Northwestern Memorial’s emergency entrance was a flash of automatic doors and urgent, shouting voices. A wheelchair appeared. Nurses surrounded her, firing questions I tried to answer. “34 weeks.” “No known complications.” “First child.”
As they wheeled her away, she reached for my hand, her eyes wild with a fear that went beyond pain. “Don’t leave me. Please, Jasper, don’t leave me.”
“I’m right here,” I promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The next eighteen hours were the longest of my life.
I sat in the surgical waiting room. Doctors rushed in and out. Their faces were grave. “Placental abruption,” one of them told me. The word was violent. “The placenta is detaching from the uterine wall. The baby is in distress. We have to operate. Immediately.”
I called Janet Powell, who arrived within the hour, her professional mask gone, her face etched with worry. I texted my neighbor, begging her to pick up June from school and keep her overnight. I drank terrible, burnt coffee from a vending machine and watched the clock hands move with agonizing, insulting slowness.
At 2:47 AM, a doctor in blue scrubs emerged from the surgical suite. I stood immediately, my heart in my throat.
“The surgery went as well as could be expected,” the doctor said carefully. He was young. Too young.
“Abigail?”
“Miss Cross is stable. She’s in recovery.”
I sagged in relief. “And the baby? The boy?”
The doctor paused. He looked down at his chart. In that one-second pause, I saw the answer.
“He was born at 02:16,” the doctor said, his voice all clinical detachment. “His lungs are… severely underdeveloped. We’ve done everything we can, but…”
“But what?” I demanded, my voice raw.
“He’s in the NICU. The next few hours are critical. You should prepare yourself, Mr. Tate.”
I found Abigail in recovery. Her face was swollen from crying, her eyes distant and hazy from the anesthetic. She looked at me, and I saw something inside her break.
“My baby,” she whispered. “Where’s my baby?”
“They’re taking care of him,” I said, pulling a chair close, my voice thick. “He’s small, Abigail. But he’s fighting.”
“I want to see him.”
“You will. As soon as they’ll let you.”
They wheeled her to the NICU at dawn. I stood beside her, my hand on her shoulder, as she looked at the tiny, fragile being in the incubator. He was impossibly small. Tubes and wires seemed to attach to every part of his tiny body. He weighed less than two pounds. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow movements.
Abigail reached through one of the incubator’s ports, her finger, trembling, touching her son’s hand. His whole hand barely covered the tip of her fingernail.
“He’s so tiny,” she whispered. “So perfect. And so tiny.”
They named him Oliver. Oliver Cross.
And for three hours, he fought. He fought harder than anyone thought possible.
But at 8:23 AM, on a Thursday morning, with the autumn sunlight streaming through the NICU windows, Oliver stopped fighting. The monitors, which had been beeping frantically, went silent. One by one.
The doctors and nurses moved with practiced urgency, but I could see in their faces that they already knew. Oliver had run out of time.
Abigail’s wail echoed through the hospital corridor. It wasn’t a cry. It was a sound of pure, primal grief. The sound of a mother losing her child, the sound of a future being ripped away.
She tried to stand, to get to the incubator. Her legs gave out. I caught her as she collapsed, and we sank to the floor together, her body racked with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere beyond human pain.
“I can’t,” she sobbed into my chest, her fists pounding weakly against me. “I can’t do this. He was all I had. He was my whole future. He was supposed to be safe.”
“I’m here,” I whispered, my own tears falling into her hair. I held her tight. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
The next days were a waking nightmare.
Abigail was cleared for discharge, but she refused to leave the hospital. She just lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on her now-empty belly. She refused to eat. She refused visitors. Janet Powell came by, eyes red, and was turned away.
But I stayed. I didn’t ask to. I just… stayed. I sat in the uncomfortable chair in the corner of her room. I brought her water she wouldn’t drink. I brought her food she wouldn’t touch. I sat in silence for hours when she couldn’t bear the sound of words. I held her hand when the grief became a physical weight, too heavy for her to carry alone.
On the tenth day, she finally spoke to me, her voice a raw croak from crying. “Why are you still here, Jasper? You have a daughter. You have a life. Go home.”
“Because no one should go through this alone,” I said simply.
“I chose to be alone,” she reminded me, the bitterness sharp. “I told you. It was safer.”
“No,” I said gently, sitting on the edge of her bed. “You chose to protect yourself. There’s a difference.”
On the eleventh day, I brought June.
I’d explained everything to my daughter in the simple, honest terms that children deserve. I told her Abigail’s baby was very, very sick, and he had to go to heaven to be with Mommy. I prepared her for what she might see.
But June, with her eight-year-old wisdom, took one look at Abigail’s broken, empty face, and she didn’t hesitate. She climbed right onto the hospital bed, past the food trays, and wrapped her small arms around the grieving woman.
“Daddy says your baby went to heaven,” June said, her voice small and clear. “My mommy’s there, too.”
Abigail let out a shuddering sob.
“She’ll take care of him,” June continued, patting Abigail’s back. “Until you get there. She’s really good at taking care of people.”
Abigail broke down completely, but for the first time, the tears seemed cleansing rather than destructive. She held onto my daughter and cried, and June just held her back, humming a little, out-of-tune song that Claire used to sing when June had nightmares.
When Abigail finally fell asleep, exhausted from grief, June looked up at me with those too-wise eyes. “Is she going to be okay, Daddy?”
“Eventually,” I whispered. “But it’s going to take a long, long time.”
“We’ll help her,” June said with absolute certainty. “That’s what we do.”
And we did.
I took a leave of absence from work, which Janet approved immediately without question. I brought Abigail home to her penthouse apartment, a place that felt as sterile and empty as the hospital room.
I grocery shopped. I cooked meals she barely touched. I sat with her through the long nights when sleep wouldn’t come and the silence was too loud.
June visited every day after school. She brought drawings. She brought funny stories from class. She brought the kind of uncomplicated love that only children can offer.
One afternoon, she brought her volcano. She set it up on the marble floor of Abigail’s kitchen. “It’s time,” she announced. She showed Abigail her “secret magma formula”—baking soda, vinegar, and a lot of red food coloring.
She poured the vinegar in, and the volcano erupted, red foam fizzing over the sides and onto the floor. June squealed with delight.
And Abigail laughed.
It was a small sound. Barely there. A gasp of air. But it was the first time I had heard it since Oliver died.
“That’s amazing, June,” Abigail said, and there was a tiny spark of light in the darkness of her eyes.
The recovery was measured in those small victories. The first day she ate a full meal. The first time she smiled at one of June’s jokes. The first day she got out of bed without me having to coax her.
The first day, three months after Oliver’s death, that she returned to work.
I walked with her into the Vilmont building that morning, ready to catch her if she faltered. But she walked through those lobby doors with her head high, her expression composed, even if her eyes still held shadows that might never fully disappear.
“I need to do this,” she’d told me the night before. “I need to remember who I was. Who I can still be.”
“You’re still that person, Abigail,” I’d assured her. “Grief doesn’t erase who you are. It just… adds another layer.”
Work became her lifeline again, but it was different. I was still her EA, but the relationship had changed. We were no longer just boss and employee. We were… survivors.
She took breaks. She left at reasonable hours. She made time for coffee with me in the middle of the afternoon when the weight of the day became too heavy. Professional boundaries blurred. Coffee meetings became dinner. Conversations about profit margins became conversations about life, about loss, about hope.
Six months after Oliver’s death, we were working late in her office. A new normal. She suddenly set down her pen and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said quietly.
“Do what?”
“This. Trust again. Open my heart again. Believe that… maybe… just maybe, something good could happen without it being taken away.”
I moved from my chair and sat on the edge of her desk, taking her hand. “You start small. One day at a time. One moment of trust at a time.”
“I’m terrified, Jasper,” she admitted, her voice a whisper.
“I know. I was too. After losing Claire… I thought I was done.” I squeezed her hand. “But June needed me to be brave. To show her that life goes on, that love is still possible. Maybe… maybe we can be brave together.”
Abigail looked at me for a long time, her hazel eyes searching my face. Then, slowly, she leaned forward.
The kiss was tentative. Careful. It was full of promise and fear and shared grief, all in equal measure.
When we pulled apart, her eyes were wet. “I’m broken,” she whispered.
“We’re all broken, Abigail,” I replied, brushing a tear from her cheek. “But maybe… maybe our broken pieces fit together.”
The next months unfolded like a slow, careful dance.
We didn’t rush. We couldn’t. Both of us had been burned too badly, lost too much. But day by day, moment by moment, trust built between us.
We had our first “official” date at a small Italian restaurant in Lincoln Park. Abigail laughed at one of my terrible dad jokes, and the sound filled a part of me I hadn’t realized was empty.
We told June after three months of quiet dinners and weekend trips to the park as a trio. She looked between us, her expression serious. Then she nodded. “Okay. But you have to promise not to be gross.”
“Define ‘gross,'” I’d asked, trying not to laugh.
“Kissing in front of me,” June said. “That’s gross.”
“Deal,” Abigail had said solemnly, shaking June’s hand.
There were hard days. Days when Abigail would see a mother with a newborn and have to leave the room. Days when the anniversary of Oliver’s birth and death approached, and the grief became raw and fresh again. I learned to recognize the signs, learned when to hold her and when to give her space.
And there were beautiful days. Days when we took June to Navy Pier and rode the Ferris wheel, the city sprawling below us. Days when Abigail came to June’s science fair (the volcano took second place) and cheered louder than anyone. Days when we cooked dinner together in my small apartment, dancing badly to old music while June rolled her eyes.
One year later, I knew. I’d known for months.
I proposed in her office. The 22nd floor. The place where it all began. It was evening, the city lights beginning to twinkle below. June was hiding behind the desk, barely containing her giggles.
“Abigail Cross,” I said, getting down on one knee. My voice shook. “A year and a few months ago, you turned my world upside down. You gave me back my job, yes. But you gave me more than that. You gave me hope. You showed me that second chances are real.”
Her hand was over her mouth, tears already streaming down her face.
“You make me want to be brave,” I continued. “You make me believe in tomorrow. And I want all my tomorrows to be with you. And with June.”
I opened the small velvet box. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes. Yes. A thousand times, yes.”
June burst out from behind the desk, squealing. “She said yes! Can I be the flower girl? You promised I could be the flower girl!”
We laughed, all three of us, crying and hugging in a tangle of arms. Through the window, rain began to fall again. Gentle this time. Cleansing.
Our wedding was six months later. Small, perfect, and held in the garden of the new house we’d bought together. June was the flower girl, walking down the aisle with such serious concentration that everyone smiled. Abigail wore a simple cream dress and carried white roses. I cried when I saw her. Janet Powell officiated, having gotten ordained online specifically for the occasion.
“I’ve never seen two people more meant for each other,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Born from tragedy and built on trust, this is a love worth celebrating.”
Our honeymoon was a weekend at a bed and breakfast in Michigan. We walked on the beach, talked about nothing and everything, and planned our future.
“I want to try again,” Abigail said one evening, as we watched the sunset over Lake Michigan.
My heart stuttered. “A baby?”
“I know it’s terrifying,” she said, grabbing my hand. “But…”
“But you’re not alone this time,” I finished for her. “We’ll face it together.”
“What if something goes wrong again?” she whispered.
“Then we’ll face that together, too,” I promised. “That’s what we do now.”
Two months later, Abigail took a pregnancy test. Then another. Then a third.
“Jasper!” she called from the bathroom, her voice shaking. “Jasper, come here!”
I found her sitting on the edge of the tub, staring at three positive tests lined up on the counter. Her face was pale. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered. “Naturally. Without IVF, without… planning. Just… pregnant.”
I knelt in front of her, taking her hands. They were ice cold. “How do you feel?”
“Terrified,” she admitted. “But also… hopeful. Is that wrong? After Oliver?”
“It’s not wrong,” I assured her, kissing her forehead. “Oliver would want you to be happy. To believe in good things.”
“I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Good thing you don’t have to.”
The pregnancy was nine months of shared anxiety and cautious joy. Weekly appointments. Careful monitoring. Abigail was terrified every single moment, convinced something would go wrong. But week by week, the baby grew, strong and healthy.
June was thrilled. She patted Abigail’s growing belly and talked to the baby about volcanoes and the best way to make Daddy laugh.
On another rainy October morning, two years after I’d first seen her on the side of the road, Abigail went into labor. This time, there was no panic. No emergency. Just the natural, beautiful process of bringing new life into the world.
Oliver Jasper Tate was born at 6:42 AM. Screaming lustily. His lungs were perfect and strong. Eight pounds, two ounces.
They handed him to Abigail, and she held her son, tears of relief and joy streaming down her face. “He’s here,” she whispered, looking at me. “He’s really here.”
“He’s perfect,” I said, one arm around my wife, the other touching my son’s tiny hand.
June peered at her new brother. “He’s kind of wrinkly.”
“You were wrinkly, too,” I informed her.
“But I was cute wrinkly,” she argued. “He’s just… wrinkly wrinkly.”
We all laughed.
One evening, three months later, Abigail and I sat on the living room couch in our home. Oliver slept in his bassinet, making the soft snuffling sounds of a content newborn. Rain fell gently against the windows, a familiar Chicago sound track that would forever mean something special to me.
“You know what amazes me,” Abigail said quietly, her head on my shoulder.
“What’s that?”
“If my car hadn’t broken down that day…”
“If Frank Morrison hadn’t been such a jerk,” I added with a grin.
“If I hadn’t trusted my instincts and come back to work…”
“If you hadn’t been brave enough to let me in,” I said.
Abigail smiled, turning to look at me. “Sometimes the worst moments… the absolute worst moments of your life… lead to the best outcomes.”
“I spent two years after Claire died just trying to survive,” I admitted. “I never thought I’d feel whole again. I never imagined I could love someone the way I love you.”
“I spent my whole life building walls,” she replied. “Convinced I’d be alone forever. Convinced it was safer that way. And now…”
June appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, her volcano T-shirt on. “Can’t sleep. Too much thinking.”
“Come here, bug,” I said, making room on the couch.
June snuggled between us, and right on cue, Oliver chose that moment to wake up, his small cry filling the room. Abigail lifted him from the bassinet, and suddenly, we were all there. A complete, messy, beautiful family.
Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the streets clean. Inside, surrounded by the people who had become my whole world, I thought about that October morning. About the choice I made to stop.
I’d risked my job for a stranger.
And in return, I’d gained everything that mattered.
The single dad who’d been fired for being late had found more than just a job. He’d found a woman strong enough to rebuild after devastation, brave enough to love after betrayal, and generous enough to make room in her carefully guarded heart for a widower and his daughter.
Together, we’d created something neither of us had thought possible. A second chance. A family. A home.
