The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 337

Chapter 337 That uncle looks so sad

Kyle

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The elevator ride to the fourth floor was a masterclass in uncomfortable silence. Mia stood as far from me as possible in the small space, her arms crossed, her attention focused on the numbers counting upward. I could smell her shampoo–something floral and clean that reminded me of the early days of our marriage when everything had seemed possible.

“Jesus, Kyle.” Mia’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.”

“That’s been your problem from the beginning.”

The elevator chimed softly as we reached her floor. Mia led the way down a hallway.

She stopped, keys jingling softly as she unlocked the door.

“Take your shoes off,” she whispered as we entered the apartment. “And be quiet. Madison’s still adjusting, and loud noises make her anxious.”

I slipped off my shoes, feeling the give of carpet under my feet, breathing in air that smelled like home–coffee, children’s shampoo, the lingering scent of whatever they’d had for dinner.

The apartment was dark except for a small light above the kitchen sink. I could make out the shapes of furniture, toys arranged in careful piles, framed photographs on surfaces I couldn’t see clearly. This was where my sons lived, where they ate breakfast and did homework and learned to be human beings without me.

“Sit down,” Mia said, gesturing toward a kitchen chair. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

I settled into the chair carefully, feeling my ribs protest with each movement. The kitchen was small but organized, everything in its place, designed for efficiency rather than show. A child’s drawing was attached to the refrigerator with magnets–stick figures under a yellow sun.

Mia returned with a small white box and a damp washcloth, setting both on the table beside me. She moved with practiced efficiency, someone who’d clearly dealt with her share of childhood injuries and domestic emergencies.

“Look up,” she said, tilting my chin with two fingers.

Her touch was clinical, professional, but I could feel the warmth of her skin through the contact. She dabbed at the cut on my lip with the washcloth, her movements gentle despite the anger I could still feel radiating from her.

She opened the first aid kit, pulling out antiseptic and bandages. I watched her face, noting the fine

Chapter 337 That uncle looks so sad

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lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there during our marriage, the way her hair fell across her cheek as she concentrated.

“You’ve gotten good at this,” I said.

“Four–year–olds are basically tiny drunk people who throw themselves at furniture,” she replied without looking up. “You learn to patch them up or you spend your life in emergency rooms.”

She applied antiseptic to my lip, and I hissed at the sting.

“Hold still.” Her voice carried the automatic authority of motherhood. “This is what you get for fighting like a teenager.”

“He started it.”

“You threw the first punch, Kyle. I saw the whole thing from my window.” She capped the antiseptic and reached for a small bandage. “What exactly were you trying to accomplish?”

The question hung between us while she applied the bandage with careful precision. Her fingers brushed against my skin, warm and sure, and for a moment I could pretend that this was normal. That we were still married, that she was taking care of me after some minor domestic accident, that our children were sleeping safely in the next room while their parents handled adult problems with

adult solutions.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“That’s been your answer for everything lately.” She stepped back, studying her work with the critical eye of someone who took pride in doing things properly. “You don’t know why you left. You don’t know why you came back. You don’t know why you picked a fight with Thomas. When are you going to start knowing things, Kyle?”

Before I could answer, a sound came from the hallway–soft footsteps on carpet, the whisper of small feet moving through the darkness. Mia froze, her head tilted toward the sound.

“Someone’s up,” she whispered.

A door opened somewhere in the apartment, followed by more footsteps and the gentle flush of a toilet. Normal household sounds, the kind that happen in families where children feel safe enough to navigate their home in the dark.

“Mama?” A small voice called from the hallway.

“Just a minute, sweetheart,” Mia called back, her voice immediately shifting to the warm, reassuring tone she used with children.

More footsteps, closer now. I found myself holding my breath, as if staying perfectly still might somehow make me invisible to whoever was approaching.

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Chapter 337 That uncle looks so sad

A small figure appeared in the kitchen doorway, backlit by the hall light. Even in silhouette, I could tell it was one of the twins–the height was right, and there was something about the way he held himself, one shoulder slightly higher than the other, that struck me as familiar.

“Mama, I heard voices,” the child said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

“It’s okay, baby. I was just-” Mia started, but then the child stepped further into the kitchen, and the light from above the sink caught his face.

Alexander.

My son.

He was bigger than in the photographs Morton had shown me, his face thinner, more defined. His hair was dark brown like mine, sticking up in all directions from sleep. He wore pajamas covered in cartoon dinosaurs, and his feet were bare against the kitchen floor.

He looked at me with the curious, unguarded expression that children reserved for strangers. His eyes–my eyes, brown and serious–moved from my bandaged lip to my torn coat to my hands, which were still shaking slightly from adrenaline and withdrawal from the medical equipment I’d abandoned.

“Who’s that, Mama?” Alexander asked, his voice carrying the particular combination of sleepiness and alertness that came with being wakened in the middle of the night.

Mia looked at me, then at Alexander, her face cycling through a series of expressions I couldn’t read. She was calculating, I realized. Trying to figure out how to handle this moment, how to protect her child from whatever complications my presence might bring.

“This is…” she started, then stopped.

Alexander stepped closer, studying me with the scientific curiosity of a four–year–old who’d encountered something new and potentially interesting.

“That uncle looks so sad,” he said.

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