Margaret leaned against the plastic partition, eyes closed. She listened to the rumbling of the bus as it drove over the streets in a soothing grumble. A hiss then a pause. She squinted at her watch and shifted. It was late. Jack should be back from his trip by now. He hadn't rung, but then he never did, impossible boy. She sighed. She still had so much prep work for the coming term. Her grip tightened on her briefcase.

It had been difficult letting him go to America. There was no logical reason he would end up anywhere near Milton, Connecticut. Still—She shivered at the thought. She hadn't wanted him to go at all, when he first mentioned the trip, but Jack had planned and saved for six years, working harder than anyone in his year. She didn't have the heart to say no. But all that was done now. He'd gone and hopefully his obsession with America would be out of his system. The bus slowed, the breaks hissing with a grinding screech. She gathered her things and walked the three blocks to their flat, popping open her umbrella when it began to rain. She paused, jiggling her key in the lock.

"You little bugger." The bloody thing stuck more and more each day and she wished the Super would do something about it. He never did, no matter how much she complained. "Come on."

"What's wrong?"

She jumped. "God, don't do that." She grumbled, glaring at her husband, who'd appeared out of nowhere behind her. For such a big man he was as quiet as a cat. She blinked, staring. He was dressed in a navy suit, white dress shirt, and a dark red tie. She shook herself. "Why are you dressed so nice?"

"Bank meeting. What's wrong with the door?"

"The key won't turn again and now I have to call someone to—"

"Maggie," he rolled his eyes, and shucked off his jacket. "Stop."

"What?"

"You've got me now." He pulled a tool bag out of his truck, rolled up his sleeves, and flicked his tie over his shoulder.

The door was fixed in less than five minutes and she had an inexplicable urge to climb him like a very well muscled tree.

She shook herself, the key finally turning, and shouldered the door open, dumping her bags by the door. "Jack-love? Are you home?"

"In the kitchen, Mam."

She let out a sigh, smiling in relief. She toed off her shoes and hung up her umbrella. "How was your flight?"

"Long. Tea's ready."

"Bless you," she turned the corner into the tiny low lit kitchen, and let out a muffled shriek. "J-Jack?"

Her son sat at the table reading, a bright red baseball cap perched on his black head. The words 'Marlborough Shipping' were embroidered in white across the front.

"Where—" The question caught in her throat. Her stomach lurched, threatening to empty itself of her sparse dinner. She'd fallen back against the wall with a soft audible thud, as if the hat would bring back the ghosts of the last sixteen years that always lingered on the edges of her thoughts. "Where the bloody hell did you get that?"

"Where do you think?" Jack set his book down, slowly stretched out his long legs, and gave her a familiar lazy look. "In America." Then he stood and turned the corner, taking the stairs two at a time up to his room.

"John Seamus Thornton," she pushed herself off the wall and followed after him, her legs shaking. "You get back here this minute and explain yourself." She shoved his bedroom door open and sucked in a breath. "You—oh."

He stood in the middle of the untidy space, the straight end of a candy cane in his mouth, hat now perched on the back of his head. She stared, her skin erupting with a distinctly unpleasant crawling feeling of guilt and regret.

Margaret tossed her rucksack by the front door, her stomach rolling with the ever constant "morning sickness." Clearly mislabeled by some miserable sod who was never pregnant a bloody day in his life. Every waking moment was a struggle to keep food where it belonged. John sat at the kitchen table, piles of papers spread out in front him, his hat perched on the back of his head, a candy cane stuck in his mouth, the hooked end brushing his chin. He didn't usually eat dessert, but he loved peppermint sweets. It made kissing him delightful.

"You're late," he muttered.

Before she could snap out a reply, her stomach lurched, her battle for the half a bagel now lost. She ran for the sink and was promptly sick. She trembled, her skin clammy, tears clouding her vision. His hands gently pulled her hair back until she was finished. He flicked on the tap as she sank against him. Then he picked her up, crossed to the living room, and tucked her into his armchair. He opened the side table drawer and offered her a candy cane, his eyes soft, worried.

"Eat. It'll help."

As he'd gotten older, she expected Jack to resemble his father in small, subtle ways. She told herself she could handle that. But nothing prepared her for moments like this, where she swore an ocean of old memories resurrected themselves to crash over her. She shook herself, scowling, and focused instead on a large suitcase sitting open on Jack's bed. "What exactly are you doing?"

Jack pulled the candy cane out of his mouth, "Packing."

"For school?" She forced herself to relax. "It's nearly August, love. You know term doesn't start until October."

"Not school, Mam," he turned back to his suitcase. "Milton."

"No." The word slammed out of her mouth before she could pull it back. "Absolutely not."

"Mam—"

"You were just in America. There's no money to go back. I won't allow it."

"Money's not the point, is it?" He pulled open his top drawer and began emptying it. "This is somethin' I've got to do. You don't have to like it but can you blame me?"

"I'm not blaming you," She moved on shaky legs over towards the chest of drawers. "I don't want you to go and that's final."

"You don't have to come," he snapped. "But my dad invited me back and I'm going. I think I deserve that much, yeah?"

"Darling, you don't understand."

"Don't I?" He turned scowling. He crossed his arms in a too familiar gesture of stubborn immovability. "I didn't even know his fucking name, Mam. I had to find that out on me own."

"Watch your language—"

"My entire life and I couldn't tell anyone what kind of a bloke my dad was because I didn't know and you never told me nothing, yeah? "

"Well—" She crossed her arms, glaring back at her son. "You never asked me."

"You didn't want me to ask," he growled. "So I didn't. Doesn't mean I didn't need to know."

"I—"

"A kid shouldn't have to ask about his dad, Mam." His voice rose, shaking a little before it broke. "Look, you can go on and pretend he doesn't exist, if that makes you happy. But I'm not going to anymore. He's my dad."

"Jack, please don't do this."

"Are you going to stop me, like? Because he won't."

She scowled at him, her stomach clenching, "That is not fair."

"No, it's not. But you know what else isn't fair, Mam? He didn't know my name either. Or my birthday. He didn't know nothing, like. All he's got is a ruddy-arse picture cousin Edith sent him when I was a baby. I'd say that's bloody not fair."

She flinched, her lungs pinching with an old ember of clawing guilt. But she couldn't answer him. Of course it wasn't fair. Nothing about what happened after she left him had been fair.

"I've got enough money left in savings for a one way ticket."

"One way? Jack, no—"

"I'll earn the rest for my return trip while I'm there. I already booked my flight. No exchanges, no refunds, yeah?"

"Jack," Her shoulders drooped and she cast about the room, as if the proper words were tucked underneath the piles of clothes, records, and books. But Jack was right. She'd tried to erase his father from their lives, from herself, thinking it would somehow be easier. She'd been such a coward all these years. "Well," she sat down heavily on his bed, "I'll be buggered."

"Well, aye," Jack grinned then, his anger softening. "Who's fault is that? You let him, yeah?"

"That's not funny, son."

"I wasn't joking," He said, sticking the candy cane back in his mouth.

"This isn't funny, John," his mother said, iron and immovable. "We've got a wedding to plan."

"I wasn't joking," he said, meeting her fierce gaze, his posture equally stubborn, daring her to try and change his mind. "Maggie should wear whatever the hell she wants."

"People will talk."

"I don't give a shit and neither should you," John stood. "A goddamn white dress won't stop them."

He took Margaret's hand and they left without another word. She hated when he said things like this. It twisted and turned her around, until she wasn't sure if she wanted to slap him or snog him. She held his hand tighter, unable to decide if shagging John Thornton was the worst—or the best—decision of her life.

"Was he pleased to see you?" She asked at last, rubbing her stinging eyes.

"I dunno." Jack sat down next to her and leaned back on his hands. "He didn't look particularly pleased, but he didn't look angry neither. Just—exhausted. I'm not sure the bloke sleeps."

She nodded, a worrying frown settling on her forehead. That much hadn't changed at least. It was always difficult to know if John was truly pleased about anything, especially when he was working too hard. Which was all the time.

"What is it?" John asked. He didn't even look up at her, notes and files, and papers scattered all over his desk. The phone started to ring. Margaret hesitated. It was stupid to come, but she couldn't go now. He let out a low growling sound of frustration and looked up, his face changing so quickly she almost laughed. He hadn't realised it was her. "Maggie, what the hell?" His words stumbled over each other and he rubbed his face. He hadn't shaved in three days. She wondered if he'd slept.

"I thought you'd be hungry." She set down the paper wrapped loaf. "Your sister made banana bread. I don't like it so—"

"Did you take the bus here?" He interrupted, his frown deepening.

"Not that again, please."

"I've told you not to," he growled, pushing himself out of his chair. "The bus isn't safe."

"It's bloody fine," she spat out, turning on her heel. "God, I was trying to be nice. You're working too hard and I thought—"

"I told you not to worry about me," he stalked after her, taking her by the arm, and marching them to his truck. His grip was firm yet gentle. He would drive her home, and probably wouldn't even bother with the banana bread. "Would it kill you to actually listen to me, woman?"

"Don't call me that," she yanked her arm free. She hated how angry he made her, and the way he made her insides squirm with desire, even when she was angry. She hated how one look made her skin feel like it was on fire, and how he took everything safe and familiar and easy and turned it all upside down.

Margaret studied her son for a moment, feeling she'd hadn't really looked at him in a very long time. He was almost seventeen, all angles and limbs, without the confident assurance that only age and experience could give a person. He had a quick temper but an even quicker smile, wide and mischievous, his blue eyes snapping with a hundred unspoken thoughts.

Margaret stared. Jack shifted, adjusting the sleeves of his suit jacket, his gangly fourteen-year-old frame at odds with the adult clothing. His face was a glowering picture of displeasure.

"It looks awful, doesn't it?" He growled, running a hand through his black hair. "You know I hate parties, Mam."

She couldn't look away, feeling as if she'd just seen a ghost. He didn't look awful. He looked just like his father.

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to see him?"

"You know why." She nodded, suddenly feeling tired and old. She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He rolled his eyes, but he didn't pull away. "He wasn't what I expected," Jack took off his hat and scratched the back of his head. It was eerie to watch the familiar movement she hadn't seen in so long. She swallowed at the lump in her throat, but all it did was lodge itself in her chest. "I guess that's a good thing, like."

"What did you expect?"

"I dunno," Jack shrugged. "Bit of a high and mighty asshole, I guess. Some minted git with a second family, not really interested in me or anyone else except himself. I'm not sure what he is but I haven't made up me mind, like. I only spent a couple of hours with him. But he was alright."

She nodded, and set his hand aside, forcing her next question, "Did you like him?"

"Will you be gutted if I did?"

She reached over and took the hat out of Jack's hand. She studied it a moment, running her finger over the white-stitched words. It didn't look right to her; it was too new, too bright, too stiff.

John was sequestered in a corner talking to two older men, but she saw his eyes flick towards her once. He paused then looked again. Nervous laughter bubbled in her chest, but she managed to master herself and shake hands, first with Mrs Thornton, then Fanny.

"Thank you for inviting us," Her father was saying. "It's a lovely party."

"John hates parties," Fanny said with a laugh. "He hates being trussed up like a penguin and forced to be nice."

Margaret turned her head, catching his eye again from across the room. He'd been watching her and for some reason she didn't mind. She very obviously slid her gaze over him, from his black hair to the tips of his polished dress shoes. It was a strange experience to see him without his hat. The old worn out thing made him familiar, predictable. This version, in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, was dangerous, like a magnet, drawing her in.

"He's not a bad man," she admitted softly, giving the hat back to Jack. "Gruff, blunt, a little too honest, but not bad. I just never could get on with him."

"You got on enough to have me."

"That's different," she folded her arms around herself and raised her chin. "He's stubborn and bloody impossible to live with."

"And you're not?"

"What does that mean?"

"Come on, Mam," Jack rolled his eyes, turning the hat over in his hands. "You're no walk in the park and that's puttin' it mild, like. I'd say you're not so different. Pot and kettle, yeah?"

"We are not," she stared at her son, incredulous. "I did my best."

Jack gave her a skeptical knowing look that crawled over her skin like a swarm of tiny ants. Not only because he'd been giving it to her since he was old enough to know when she was lying, but also because whenever he did, she saw John Thornton looking back at her. Challenging her. Demanding the truth. He'd always known when she was lying and he never gave her an inch. It was one of many infuriating impossible things about that man. Her words suddenly felt like a weight pressing down on her chest. She had tried, hadn't she? She'd tried to talk to him, to change his mind, to make things better, hadn't she? Until she'd given up and left.

"I'm tired," Margaret stood and rubbed her arms, suddenly cold. "Come down to the kitchen and have a cuppa, yeah?"

"In a minute," he stood and kept shifting things around his room, shoving mostly clean clothes into his suitcase.

"Suit yourself."

Halfway down the creaking stairs, she paused and leaned against the wall, sucking in deep breaths. She would not cry. She'd known this day was coming. She'd dreaded it for sixteen years and now that it was here, she felt sick, and small, and more relieved than she ever expected. Like draining an infection or setting a broken bone. She'd hated the long years of terrible silence, wondering, waiting for the moment John Thornton would walk back into her life. In some ways he'd never really left. The tea had gone cold and she busied herself making a fresh pot, the easy habit calming her jangling nerves. Their whole life had fallen apart and she hated always pretending everything was grand, and lovely, knowing that underneath it was a load of rot.

Jack's rucksack and travel bag were still on the floor by the table where he'd dumped them. She smiled in spite of herself, gathered the pack, and began emptying the contents. She made a tidy pile on a chair for Jack to deal with later. Her hand froze over the stack of books and other papers when she saw a large mailing envelope. Stamped in the corner was the return address of Marlborough Shipping. She shook the contents onto the table. She fingered the wrinkled wedding license, the baby scans, her breath catching. He'd kept it all. Even the bloody baby shower invitation. She picked it up, smoothed it out, tracing the faded silver lettering with her finger.

"Fanny is hosting a baby shower for us," She handed him the invitation.

"Good for her," John barely glanced at it, and tossed it aside. "I'm not going."

"I can't go by myself."

"So don't go."

She stared at him, "I have to go, and if I have to, you have to."

"I'd rather be shot again."

"John." She glared at him, her eyes flicking over the terrible scar on his bare shoulder, "Please try to be serious about this."

"I don't care what anyone thinks," he grumbled, and set aside his coffee. "And neither should you."

She blew out a frustrated breath. "I know I shouldn't care, but I do," then she laid her hand on his, "I can't face your mother's friends alone." He frowned, slowly lacing his fingers through hers. "Please."

He made a face. They sat for a moment in a tense silence. Then he sighed, "Fine. One hour, Maggie. No more."

She jumped up and before she realised what she was doing, grabbed his face in her hands and kissed him. Everything impossible seemed to melt away when his lips touched hers. He let out a rough satisfied sound, tugging her into his lap.

"Your shoulder—"

"I'll live."

Margaret pressed the invitation to her chest, too tired to stop her tears anymore. He'd gone to the baby shower because she'd asked him to. God, how she'd wished she hadn't. It wasn't just the shower. It was everything and it was her fault. She'd spent all these years trying not to admit it. The kettle whistled, and she wiped at her cheeks, forcing herself to finish steeping the tea. Jack reappeared a few minutes later and sat with her at the table, giving her a curious look as he scraped his things back into his rucksack.

"Mam? You alright?"

"I'll live." She handed him the bent invitation. Thorntons were good at living through hell, even if they made it for themselves. "So," she blew on her tea and gathered her courage. "What did he tell you about me?"

"He didn't." Jack was watching her closely, hesitant. She blinked, her hand on the milk. He stirred a small scoop of sugar into his tea and licked the spoon. "I didn't ask about you."

She nodded, and busied herself with her tea. "Well, what did you ask him?"

"About the divorce papers."

"How do you know about those?"

"I remembered, like."

"But," she stared at him, her tea forgotten, "You were only five."

"Well, aye. It was the first time you ever mentioned my dad. So yeah, I remember."

"Do you remember anything else?"

He shrugged, his face dark. "I remember Aunt Shaw made you cry."

"For goodness sake, what's wrong, darling?" Edith pushed Jack off her lap and gathered her cousin into a hug. "Hush."

It was done. She'd felt paralyzed the entire bus ride to and from Henry's office. The papers were completed and—God forgive her—she'd signed them.

"You should be pleased, Margaret Ann," Aunt Shaw said with a sniff. "You should've divorced that man years ago."

"He's my husband, not yours," Margaret snapped. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She clasped Jack's little hand in hers and escaped out of that house onto the street without another word. She was so tired of everyone telling her what she should and shouldn't do. For five years she'd tried to do it all, and nothing worked.

"Mummy," Jack tugged on her hand. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm sad," she wiped her eyes, but new tears replaced them too quickly.

"Because of that man Aunt Shaw hates?"

She stopped and knelt. "Yes."

"Who is he?"

She didn't know what made her answer him honestly. "Your daddy." She tried to smile. "Aunt Shaw doesn't hate him. She just doesn't know him and it's hard to like someone you don't know."

"Do you like my daddy?"

"I—I don't know."

"Doesn't he like you?"

She swallowed back a sob. Whatever John Thornton felt about her, she knew he would be furious when those papers arrived in America.

"Why, Mam?" It was a strange impossible question. Jack didn't look away, forcing her to drop her eyes. "Why'd you do it?"

"I don't know."

Jack snorted, "That's not an answer, you know? I'm so tired of it." When she still didn't say anything, he sighed. "He said he sent them back, like. Said he didn't sign them. Did you know that?"

"I—" She paused. "I knew." The words supplied themselves, reluctantly, painfully.

"He didn't sign them."

"I—sorry?" She gripped the phone tighter. "What do you mean?"

Henry let out a frustrated laugh, "I don't think he even opened the packet."

Her heart thrummed in her chest. He hadn't signed them. He hadn't even read them. Henry kept talking, and she supplied polite wordless noises, her thoughts spinning. When she hung up, she sank to the floor, and cried. She didn't know if she was angry or relieved.

"Didn't you want to know why he did it?"

"Of course I wanted to know why." She took the last deliberate sip of tea.

"You could've asked him, yeah? Picked up the phone and had a bloody conversation."

"It's not that simple."

"Yeah. It is, like."

"He probably just wanted to make me angry. He's like that. Stubborn, rude, antagonistic, especially towards me. Henry and I decided—"

"Well, aye, here we go," Jack grumbled, crossing his arms. "Because I give a rat's tit about Henry Lennox and what he thinks about my dad."

"That's enough," she stood and began clearing away the tea. "Henry's been very good to us."

"To you, maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come off it, Mam. You're still married and he knows it. Which means good-boy-Henners has been trying to get into a married woman's pants for—how many years now?"

She shook her head, "It's not like that with us."

"You're right mad if you believe that for one second, like. He's not hanging around for anything else."

"Henry's my friend. And he likes you—"

"Yeah, he likes me about as much as I like him, the twat."

"John Thornton!"

"Call me old fashioned, but I don't have a high opinion for some git chasing another bloke's wife."

"Stop it. Please." She gathered up stacks of dishes, piling them in the sink. "I don't want to discuss this anymore."

"He's never liked me," Jack insisted. He met her hard look with one of his own. "And if he told you he does, it's because he wants a shag." She blushed, focusing on the dishes, unwilling to entertain the thought. Her son was too sharp for his own good, and he always said exactly what he thought. Just like his father. "Mam," Jack suddenly sounded incredulous. "Have you ever—"

"I've never shagged Henry Lennox or anyone else, thank you," she snapped, whirling around. For some reason the idea that she would deliberately lead on other men, let alone Henry Lennox, while still married to the only man she'd ever really wanted to shag, made her blood boil. Jack raised his eyebrows, slowly lowering his tea cup to the table. She cleared her throat, her face flushed, sweat building at the base of her neck. "No one, except your father, of course," she added reluctantly, flipping on the kitchen tap. She might not have been a good wife but, unlike her own mother, she bloody kept her promises. "Not that it's any of your bloody business."

"Does he know that?"

"Who?"

"My dad?"

"I—"

"Mam." Jack jumped up, his face an odd mixture of eager caution. "Give 'im a ring. I bet he'd answer."

"I—I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"No," she shook her head wearily, "I've had enough tonight, love."

"Mam—"

"Stop mithering, and get off to bed. We can talk more later."

Jack stared at her for a hard moment. Then he nodded. "Yeah, alright."

"Sweet dreams, darling."

He rolled his eyes, "I'm not five."

"You'll always be five to me, little-love," She reached up and patted his cheek. He was already a head taller than her. "Wash and shave, yeah?" He sighed, giving her a flat look. "Go on."

Jack thumped up the stairs. She finished the dishes and followed softly after, pausing to gather her things from the entryway. She ought to spend the evening developing her lesson plans for the new online courses her boss had assigned her for the coming term. She closed her bedroom door and locked it, switched on the bedside lamp and set the books and folders on her tiny desk. She sat in the small chair, shifting until she was comfortable. But instead of working, she opened the drawer of her desk and pulled a battered Polaroid picture from the back corner, buried under a stack of old magazines. She rubbed her thumbs over the image and studied the man in it. She'd memorized every tired line and angle of his face ages ago. Sometimes she could almost feel the scratch of rough stubble under her thumbs or catch a hint of coffee, cheap soap, peppermint, and petrol. It almost hurt to look but she did anyway. She shuddered and pulled out her mobile, staring at it. She couldn't ring him. Not now, not after sixteen years of terrible silence. What the bloody hell would she even say if she did? Her mobile buzzed and she jumped, almost dropping it.

"Alright, Meg?"

"You have eerie timing, Darcy Mosely. What ungodly reason could you have for calling so bloody late?"

"Come off it," Darcy chuckled. "It's not that late."

"It is for those of us with normal jobs."

"I don't believe in normal and neither should you, love. How was Jackie's trip to America? Did he love it?"

"He's absolutely obsessed with the place and I blame you, you know."

"Course you do, love," she could almost hear the cheeky wink in Darcy's voice. "Go on then. How was it?"

"It was fine," she lied. "He visited Boston and New York. He sent me a postcard."

"Brilliant. And?"

"And nothing."

"Nothing, my arse. Something's happened, I can hear it in your voice. Go on then. I could do with a bit o' juicy gossip."

"Dar," Margaret slumped a little, her breath catching in her throat. Sometimes, when she least expected it, her best friend reminded Margaret of Bess Higgins. She hadn't thought of Bess in years. Of course she would, now. She shivered, pushing the thought away. "Jack met his father."

Darcy made a little choking noise, and the line went silent for moment. Then a whoosh of breath. "Bloody fucking hell, Meg. Tell me everything. Now."