It was all just too much – too many unknowns, too many people depending on her, too many decisions to make. Too much for her to deal with. She couldn't do it...couldn't make a decision. She needed more time. More than she was going to get.

Ian would be home in a matter of hours and Louise was right – if she wanted to leave, she needed to do it now.

The problem was, she didn't want to leave. But what she wanted didn't matter anymore. What mattered was whether it was safer for her child... And she didn't have the answer to that question. (Wasn't sure she'd like it even if she did...)

Searching for an answer, for some kind of validation, she found herself in Derek's room, standing in the doorway remembering all the times she'd lain in his bed while her husband slept on, unaware. She knew she should feel guilty, but in that moment, she couldn't quite muster any regret. Not when she could swear she felt his presence over her shoulder, the ghost of his breath on the back of her neck, the memory of his lips on hers.

She could hardly stand, hardly breathe with the force of his memories hitting her square in the chest and she shakily settled herself on the edge of his bed, not trusting her legs to support her in that moment.

"Tell me what to do," she breathed, begging his spirit to guide her when she felt so lost. "Give me a sign..."

As if in response, the baby started kicking in earnest, pressing both feet against her belly with all its little might.

"I know, Little One," she murmured, "I know... You were conceived right here." She paused, winced, gave a small self-deprecating laugh. "You probably didn't need to know that..." She shook her head softly. "Everything I have left of him – except for you – is here in this room."

Her gaze landed on the bedside table, empty but for two picture frames. The first was obviously a number of years old - a family portrait, including a much younger Derek, taken before his father had died. They looked happy...no idea of the tragedy that was coming.

The other, she assumed, was his son. The young boy wore nothing but a diaper and a party hat, cake smeared all over his chubby baby cheeks. It couldn't have been taken more than a week or two before he was murdered.

And, tucked into the corner of the frame was the ultrasound photo she'd given him. He had to have known that if Ian had found it, he was risking everything, but he'd displayed it anyway...

"You have no idea how loved you are," she whispered to her belly, "Well...were." She paused. "Not that you aren't still loved, but...your Daddy really loved you, even knowing he could never be your father."

It occurred to her then that someday, her child was going to have questions, they were going to wonder about Derek and where they came from. Questions she wasn't going to have the answers to, questions she hadn't thought to ask while he was still alive. The feeling that she'd failed her child welled up in her chest.

She had until Ian got home to collect what she could and hide it away until such a time as their baby was ready to know the truth about their parentage.

With trembling hands, she lifted the frames and set them reverently on the bed. They appeared to be the only pictures he had.

In fact, they seemed to be the only things at all he'd kept from his former life.

She couldn't find any photo albums, no keepsake box, no sign he'd had a life at all before that day he'd saved Ian's life in Boston. She wasn't sure if that was by design or if he genuinely had nothing left of his past, nothing to show for his life but two pictures and the child in her womb.

The only other personal touch to his room was the well-worn copy of Mother Night that sat alone on the bookshelf. She knew it to be his favourite.

One night as they'd lain together in bed, she'd spotted the book and said to him, "I thought surely you'd built a new life, with no room in it for me. I'd hoped that."

And without missing a beat, he'd quoted back, "My life is nothing but room for you. It could never be filled by anyone but you."

He'd been so genuine, so earnest in his reply that her eyes had filled with tears and even now the memory of it made her choke on them.

She reached for the book and as she lifted it, a slip of paper fell from between the pages. When she unfolded it, she found a letter in his handwriting, as if he'd somehow known this all would happen.

Dear Emily;

I won't pretend to understand why you did what you did. I won't pretend that I wasn't also at fault. I won't pretend that what we had wasn't real.

I loved you as fiercely as I knew how. You loved me the same – try as you might to deny it. Maybe it was a moment of weakness for you, but when you strip away that facade of strength you show to the world, that's where you find the truth.

And one day, when our child asks you questions that are hard to answer, I hope you find it inside you to give the honest answers.

I know you're raising this baby as Ian's – I've accepted that because I know how hard it is to grow up without a father. I know you trust him and I trust that you want what's best for your child. But there will come a time when the truth is more important and I trust that you'll do the right thing then.

Not for you or even for me, but for that child who deserves the truth of who they are: above all else, a child borne of love.