Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 65

[POV Xander]

I'd been in the bedroom, trying to give Daphne space with her parents, when the voices began to rise. Something in her tone made me move toward the hallway—not to interrupt, but to listen. To understand.

I stopped just outside the living room, hidden by the corner of the wall, and heard every word cutting deeper than I expected.

Daphne's voice was steady, but I could hear the pain beneath it. "You told me I wasn't ready, that I couldn't even take care of myself—"

"Daphne, we were trying to—" Her mother's voice, defensive and pleading.

"You'll regret this," Daphne cut her off, and I realized she was quoting—repeating the exact words she'd been given instead of support. "That's what you said to me. 'We won't help you clean up this mess. Don't come back expecting sympathy.'"

The precision of her memory was devastating. Each phrase landed like a blow, and I could picture a younger Daphne, alone and frightened, receiving those words from the people who should have protected her.

"We—," her father said, his voice rough. "We didn't know how to handle it."

"So you did it by abandoning me." Daphne's voice didn't waver. "I ate ramen for months because I couldn't afford groceries. I gave birth alone in a hospital room with no one holding my hand, no one telling me it would be okay."

"We didn't know it would be twins," her mother whispered. "If we'd known—"

"Would it have mattered? Would two babies have been worth helping when one wasn't?"

The silence that followed was answer enough.

"I didn't disappear," Daphne's voice dropped, quiet but firm, each word carrying the weight of years. "I called you when I went into labor. Do you remember that? I called, and you didn't answer. I left a voicemail saying I was scared, that something felt wrong, that I needed my mother. You never called back."

My chest constricted painfully. I'd known Daphne had raised the twins alone before we reconnected. I'd known her relationship with her parents was complicated. But I hadn't known this—the full scope of what she'd survived, the depth of the abandonment she'd endured.

"We thought you needed to learn responsibility," her father said, the excuse sounding hollow even from where I stood. "If we stayed away, you'd realize—"

"I realized plenty," Daphne's laugh was bitter, hollow. "That I couldn't count on anyone but myself, that the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally had conditions after all. I realized that I was completely, utterly alone."

"You weren't alone," her mother protested weakly. "You had friends, you had—"

"I had Charlotte. One friend who showed up when my own parents wouldn't. One person who held Nina while I fed Lisa at three in the morning because I was so exhausted I couldn't see straight. One person who told me I was doing a good job when everyone else had written me off."

The realization hit me brutally, like a fist to the chest. Daphne had survived all of that alone. No money, no safety net, and no one to catch her when she fell. She'd built a life from nothing, raised two incredible daughters, and never once complained about what it had cost her.

And I hadn't been there either.

The parallel took shape before I could stop it—sharp, unwanted, undeniable. Her parents had abandoned her… But I had abandoned her first, hadn't I? I'd given her a fake name, a dead phone number, a night of connection followed by years of silence.

If I'd been honest that night at the bar, if I'd stayed, if I'd given her any way to find me—

I had done this too. Different reasons, different circumstances, but the result was the same. Daphne had been alone when she shouldn't have been, and I was part of the reason why.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty," Daphne continued, and I heard the exhaustion in her voice now. "This family—me, Xander, the girls—we were built from wreckage. We were built by people who showed up when it mattered, who chose to be present even when it was hard."

"We want to show up now," her mother said. "We want to be those people."

"Then prove it with actions. Come to the girls' school plays. Call me on random Tuesdays just to ask how I'm doing. Be consistent and reliable. Be the grandparents they deserve."

"We can do that," her father said quietly. "We want to do that."

"I hope so, because I won't give you unlimited chances. I've learned the hard way that some people don't change, and I won't let my daughters be hurt by that lesson the way I was."

I heard movement—chairs shifting, footsteps. I should move, should pretend I hadn't been listening, but my body felt rooted to the floor.

"We should go," her mother said. "Let you rest. But Daphne—thank you, for being honest with us, for giving us a chance we probably don't deserve."

"Everyone deserves a chance to make things right. What matters is what you do with it."

I heard the door open and close, and then silence. I stood in the hallway for a long moment, processing everything I'd heard.

Daphne had carried all of this without complaint. Years of hurt, years of proving herself to people who should have believed in her from the start. And she'd done it while raising our daughters, while building a career, while somehow maintaining the warmth and generosity that had drawn me to her in the first place.

Being present now doesn't erase absence then. I could love her fiercely, protect her completely, provide for her abundantly—and none of it would undo the years she'd spent alone. None of it would heal the wounds her parents had inflicted, or the ones I'd contributed to by disappearing.

I stepped into the living room. Daphne stood by the window, her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders tight with tension.

"You heard," she said without turning around. It wasn't a question.

"Yes…"

"I'm sorry you had to listen to that. It wasn't—"

"Don't," I crossed the room, stopping behind her close enough to touch but not quite making contact. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"They're trying, and I can see that. Or, I want to see that. But I've spent so long being angry, and I don't know how to let it go."

"You don't have to. You just have to decide what you want moving forward."

She turned to face me, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. "What I want is for my daughters to have grandparents who show up, to stop carrying this weight alone."

"You're not alone anymore," I reached for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. "I know I wasn't there when I should have been, and my absence hurt you too, even if the circumstances were different. But I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere."

She studied my face for a long moment, searching for something I hoped she could find.

"I believe you," she said finally. "But trust takes time, especially given the secrets you still hide."

She leaned into me, her forehead resting against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around her. We stood like that in the fading afternoon light, two people learning that loving each other would require more than protection—it would require growth, patience, and the willingness to become better.