I went into labor three weeks early, on a rainy Tuesday in late October. The contractions started during breakfast-mild at first, easily mistaken for the Braxton Hicks contractions I'd been experiencing for weeks. But by mid-morning, they had established a rhythm that couldn't be ignored, growing steadily stronger and closer together. "I think it's time to call Camille," I told Isabelle, who had taken the day off work to accompany me to what we'd thought would be a routine prenatal appointment. "The baby's coming." Isabelle's eyes widened, but she maintained her composure, reaching for her phone to call the midwife while simultaneously helping me to the sofa. "How far apart are the contractions?" "About seven minutes," I said, wincing as another one began building. "But they're getting stronger." Camille arrived within the hour, her calm presence immediately soothing my rising anxiety. After examining me, she confirmed what I already knew-I was in active labor, progressing more quickly than expected for a first-time mother. "We should go to the hospital," she said, her English crisp and professional despite the urgency of the situation. "Your baby is eager to meet you, it seems." The ride to the hospital passed in a blur of intensifying contractions and rain-slicked streets. Isabelle held my hand the entire way, murmuring encouragement in a mixture of French and English. At the hospital, everything moved with surprising efficiency. My birth plan had been registered weeks earlier, and the staff at the American Hospital of Paris was accustomed to expatriate patients. I was settled into a delivery suite with views of rain-drenched gardens, monitors attached to track the baby's heartbeat and my contractions. "Would you like me to call anyone?" Isabelle asked as the nurses busied themselves around us. "Your father? Victoria?" The question she didn't ask hung in the air between us: Should we call Lucas? I hesitated, torn between my instinct to face this alone and the knowledge that Lucas deserved to know his son was about to be born. "Not yet," I decided finally. "There's still time." But there wasn't. My labor progressed with unexpected speed, the contractions coming harder and faster until they seemed to flow into one another without respite. By the time I was fully dilated, I had lost all sense of time and place, focused only on the overwhelming work of bringing my child into the world. "You're doing beautifully," Camille encouraged as I began to push. "The baby's head is crowning. Just a few more pushes." I bore down with all my strength, a primal sound tearing from my throat as I felt the burning stretch of my son's passage. Through the haze of pain and effort, a strange clarity descended-a moment of perfect certainty that I was exactly where I needed to be, doing exactly what I was meant to do. "One more big push," Camille directed, her voice steady. "That's it, Autumn. He's coming." With a final, monumental effort, I felt my son slip from my body and into the world. There was a moment of suspended silence, and then-the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. My baby's first cry, indignant and strong, announcing his arrival with unmistakable Bailey determination. 'It's a boy," Camille confirmed unnecessarily, placing the squirming, vernix-covered infant on my chest. "A beautiful, healthy boy." gazed down at my son through tears, taking in his scrunched face, the dark thatch of hair so like his father's the tiny fingers already curled into fists as if ready to take on the world. Love-immediate, overwhelming, iercer than anything I'd ever felt-washed through me. 'Hello, Lucas," I whispered, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead. "I'm your mom." The hours that followed passed in a daze of wonder and exhaustion. Little Lucas was cleaned, measured, examined, and returned to me-8 pounds, 2 ounces of perfect baby boy. I marveled at his miniature features, rying to discern which belonged to me and which to his father. The shape of his eyes was mine, I thought, bu the strong jawline and that determined expression were pure Lucas Bailey. As evening fell and the rain continued to patter against the hospital windows, Isabelle returned from a coffee un to find me staring at my sleeping son with a mixture of awe and terror. He's perfect," she said, setting a paper cup on my bedside table. "You did well, chérie." I can't believe he's really here," I murmured. "That I'm responsible for this tiny person." sabelle settled into the visitor's chair. "Have you decided on his full name?" nodded, stroking my son's velvety cheek with one finger. "Lucas William Shepherd." William for his paternal great-grandfather-a connection to the Bailey side he might never know. And will you tell his father?" Isabelle asked gently. "Now that he's here?" The question I'd been avoiding for months could no longer be postponed. Lucas had a right to know about his son-I had always known that, even as I'd justified my silence with concerns about timing and circumstance. Not yet," I said finally. "I need... time. To adjust. To figure out how to be a mother before I face that particular challenge." sabelle nodded, though her expression suggested she didn't entirely agree with my decision. "You can't keep him a secret forever, you know." 'I know," I admitted. "Just a little longer. Until I'm stronger. Until I'm sure." The first weeks of motherhood were a blur of sleepless nights, endless feeding sessions, and a learning curve steeper than anything I'd experienced in my professional life. Little Lucas had strong opinions about 1/3 Chapter 25 The Child's Beth everything-when he wanted to eat, how he wanted to be held, which lullabies were acceptable and which were immediately rejected with indignant wails. "He's stubborn," Isabelle observed one night as I paced her living room with my crying son. "Like his parents." I managed a tired smile. "Is that a diplomatic way of saying he's difficult?" "Not difficult," she corrected. "Determined. He knows what he wants and isn't afraid to demand it. This is a strength, non?" As challenging as those early weeks were, they were also filled with moments of transcendent joy-the first time Lucas smiled at me, a gummy grin that lit up his entire face. The way he would settle instantly when I held him against my chest, his tiny body molding perfectly to mine as if we were still one being. The peaceful weight of him sleeping in my arms, trusting me completely to keep him safe. By the time he was three months old, we had established something resembling a routine. I had taken on a few remote design projects that I could work on during his naps. Isabelle had returned to her full-time schedule at the design house where she worked, but arranged to be home early three days a week to give me a break. My support group of expatriate mothers remained a lifeline, offering practical advice and emotional support in equal measure. "Have you thought about going back to Northbrook?" Emma asked during one of our weekly gatherings, her own son now crawling energetically around Sophie's living room. "You've mentioned your business there several times." I watched as Lucas, propped up on a play mat, batted enthusiastically at a dangling toy. "Sometimes," I admitted. "I miss certain things. My studio. My house. The familiarity of it all." "But?" Sophie prompted. "But going back means facing Lucas-my ex-husband, not my son," I clarified with a small smile. "It means difficult conversations and complicated arrangements. It means sharing my baby with someone who didn't experience any of this-the pregnancy, the birth, these first months." "And that scares you," Emma said, not a question but a statement. I nodded. "More than I want to admit." As the months passed and little Lucas grew from a dependent newborn to an increasingly interactive infant, my thoughts turned more frequently to Northbrook, to the life I'd left behind, to the difficult conversations tha awaited me there. My father had visited twice, falling instantly in love with his grandson and tactfully avoidin any mention of Lucas Bailey during his stays. "He looks like you," Dad insisted, cradling his sleeping grandson. "Around the eyes, especially." I raised an eyebrow. "You don't think he resembles his father at all?" My father's expression remained carefully neutral. "Perhaps a little. Around the jaw." He looked up at me, his gaze direct. "Lucas asks about you, you know. Every time I see him at industry events, every time our paths cross in town. He still doesn't know about the baby." Guilt twisted in my stomach. "I'll tell him. When the time is right." "And when will that be, Autumn? When this little one starts college?" I winced at the uncharacteristic sharpness in my father's tone. "It's complicated, Dad." "It's only as complicated as you make it," he replied, but let the subject drop. By the time little Lucas celebrated his first birthday-a small affair in Isabelle's apartment with a homemade cake and a few close friends-I knew my Parisian exile was coming to an end. I couldn't hide in Paris forever, couldn't keep my son from his father indefinitely, couldn't postpone the inevitable confrontation that awaited me in Northbrook. Moreover, I missed home. Missed my design studio and the projects I'd been building there. Missed the familiarity of American customs and language. Missed being able to communicate effortlessly, without the constant mental translation that still taxed me despite a year of French immersion. "I think it's time," I told Isabelle one evening as we watched little Lucas practicing his wobbly steps between the coffee table and sofa. "To go back, I mean." She nodded, unsurprised. "I've been expecting this. You've been restless lately, checking real estate listings back home, talking about the studio more often." "You're very observant," I said with a small smile. Isabelle shrugged elegantly. "It's my job to notice details. And you, my friend, are not as inscrutable as you think." She reached out to steady Lucas as he teetered on unsteady legs. "What's your plan? For when you see him?" I sighed. "I don't have one, not really. I'll stay with my father at first, reopen the studio, try to establish some normalcy before the inevitable confrontation." "And if you run into Lucas before you're ready? Northbrook isn't Paris-you can't hide forever in a small American town." "Then I'll face it," I said with more confidence than I felt. "I've had a year to prepare myself. To get stronger. To know exactly what I want for myself and for my son." Isabelle looked skeptical. "And what is that, exactly?" I watched my son, now sitting triumphantly on the floor, a wooden block clutched in each tiny hand. "I want him to know his father. To have that relationship, regardless of what happens between Lucas and me. And I want..." I hesitated, struggling to articulate feelings I'd been avoiding for months. "I want the chance to see if Chapter 2 The Chito's Bir there's anything real there. Between Lucas and me. Without pressure or obligation or the complication of an arranged marriage." Isabelle nodded, understanding in her eyes. "Then you must go back. And face whatever waits for you there- good or bad." Two weeks later, I stood in Charles de Gaulle Airport, my son balanced on my hip as I prepared to board the flight that would take us back to America, back to Northbrook, back to the confrontation I'd been avoiding for a year. "Ready for a big adventure, little man?" I asked, pressing a kiss to his dark curls. Lucas grinned, revealing his four tiny teeth. "Ma-ma," he replied, his current favorite word. As we boarded the plane that would carry us home, I felt a strange mixture of dread and anticipation. Whatever happened with Lucas Bailey-anger, rejection, reconciliation, or something in between-at least the waiting would be over. The truth would be out, for better or worse. And my son would finally meet his father.