He nods once. “As best as I could. She was sick, and it was just the two of us when Dad traveled. Which he did a lot.”

The way he says it—so matter-of-fact—makes my stomach turn. A six-year-old boy, alone in a house with his dying mother. A child who had to grow up before he even had a chance to be one.

“My brothers bullied me because I was a bastard,” he continues. “Ledger—he hates me more than everyone else. Thinks I stole his place in the family. Never understood that I was never part of it, to begin with.”

I glance at the tombstone again, a lump forming in my throat. “Was she a horrible stepmother?” The words come out hard, bitter. I’m ready to spit on her grave.

But Atlas shakes his head.

“No,” he says quietly. “She was kind to me. Almost like a mother. Our relationship was . . . strange. She was like an aunt. A friend. Something.” He exhales, his fingers flexing against mine. “She died three years ago. One night, when she was dying, I asked her why she was always so nice to me.”

His throat bobs, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“She said I was hers. That even though my origin was painful, I was part of her heart.” His words land with a force I wasn’t expecting. “She did her best to care for me, even when she hated my parents. Even when her sons wanted nothing to do with me.”

I look at Atlas then, really look at him.

Atlas—the man who grew up in a house that never wanted him. Who learned to survive in a family that never saw him as one of their own. The man who carries scars he doesn’t talk about, who still shows up, still fights, still cares—even when the world has given him every reason not to.

“You’re not what I expected, Atlas Timberbridge,” I sigh, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

He doesn’t react, not in the way I expect. No smirk, no quick-witted comeback. Nothing.

“What I wanted to tell you,” he says, voice measured, like he’s walking a tightrope, “is that even when we didn’t share anything, she learned to love me. She took care of me.” His gaze drifts to the headstone, something flickering in his expression. “I’m not saying it’s the same, but . . . this baby is part yours, and you might⁠—”

“Learn to love them?” I finish for him.

I don’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but I can’t help it. It’s too easy for him to say. Too easy for him to believe.

And now I see why.