Chapter 2 - The South Side Flat
The cold October wind whipped off Lake Michigan, swirling dry leaves and discarded newspapers down the cracked asphalt of 63rd Street. Preston parked his high-end vehicle two blocks away in a dimly lit grocery lot, not wanting to draw predatory eyes in the struggling South Side neighborhood. He zipped his wool coat to his chin and walked briskly, clutching the slip of paper Martin had texted him.
The address led to a weathered three-story brick walkup wedged between a shuttered laundromat and an auto-repair shop. The front security door had a broken buzzer panel, its lock held together by sheer friction. Preston pushed inside, greeted by the smell of boiled cabbage, damp radiators, and old wood. He climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Apartment 2B.
He raised his hand to knock, but hesitated. What right did he have to be here? For five years, while he dined in Michelin-starred restaurants and slept in penthouse suites, the woman he had promised to cherish had climbed these rotting stairs with swollen ankles, carried two infants through bitter Midwestern freezes, and counted pennies just to buy bread.
He took a ragged breath and knocked three times.
From inside, he heard muffled scuffling, followed by a child's bright voice: ""Is it Frank with the cookies?""
""Hush, Theo. Stay in the kitchen with your brother,"" Naomi’s familiar, weary voice echoed through the thin wood. The chain slid back, the deadbolt turned with a heavy clunk, and the door swung open just a few inches.
Naomi froze.
She was wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt with frayed cuffs, faded jeans, and wool socks. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot, and her face, though lined with exhaustion and starkly pale under the flickering hallway bulb, was still unmistakably beautiful to him.
""Preston?"" Her voice was barely a whisper, carrying a sudden, paralyzing fear. Her eyes immediately darted behind him, scanning the empty corridor as if she expected process servers or private security guards to materialize from the shadows.
""Naomi,"" he began, but the word caught in his throat. Up close, he could see the hollows beneath her cheekbones. ""Please... don't close the door.""
""How did you find this place?"" Her grip on the doorframe tightened until her knuckles turned white. ""What do you want, Preston? I signed every waiver your mother’s people threw at me five years ago. I haven't asked for your money. I haven't gone to the papers. I have left you completely alone.""
""I know,"" he said softly, feeling a wave of shame so acute it made him physically sway. ""I saw you this morning, Naomi. At Frank’s bakery.""
Her breath hitched. A defensive barrier slammed down behind her eyes, transforming her weariness into fierce, maternal steel. ""Those boys have nothing to do with you. You made your terms very clear when you threw me out of Lake Forest. 'Disappear,' you said. I did what you asked.""
""I didn't know you were pregnant,"" Preston said, taking a half-step forward, his hands raised in surrender. ""Naomi, as God is my witness, I swear to you on my father’s grave: I never received your letters. I never heard the voicemails. My mother... Eleanor intercepted everything.""
Naomi stared at him, her chest heaving slightly. For a moment, a flicker of profound pain broke through her guard, but she crushed it down. ""Does it matter? The result is the same, Preston. You chose your mother’s bloodline and your business legacy over me. And now you show up five years later, standing outside my home like a ghost. What are you here to do? Take them?""
""No!"" Preston said urgently. ""Never. I swear to you, Naomi, I'm not here to take anything. I just... I need to see them. Please. Just let me talk to you for ten minutes.""
Before Naomi could answer, the kitchen door swung wide open. Little feet padded across the linoleum. Two identical small figures slipped past Naomi’s legs, peering up at the tall stranger standing in the hall.
One held a blue plastic spaceship missing half its wing. The other clutched a sketchpad. Both had Preston’s unruly dark cowlick, his intense gaze, and the very same chin that had defined four generations of Calloway men.
""Mommy,"" the boy with the sketchbook said, pointing an ink-stained finger at Preston’s coat. ""That man has shiny buttons like the captain on my TV show.""
""Eli, go back to the kitchen,"" Naomi commanded softly, but her voice lacked its usual authority.
Preston dropped down to his knees right there on the dusty floorboards of the hallway. Being at eye level with them shattered whatever remaining composure he possessed. The resemblance wasn't just physical; it was an echo of his own childhood, stripped of the coldness and formality of the Lake Forest estate.
""Hi,"" Preston whispered, his voice cracking entirely. ""I'm... I'm a friend of your mom's.""
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The other twin, Theo, tilted his head, raising his left eyebrow in that exact, uncanny manner Preston had seen at the bakery. ""Did you bring the rest of the eighty cents for the croissants?""
A tear escaped Preston’s eye, slipping down his cheek. He wiped it away hastily, shaking his head. ""No, buddy. But I'm going to make sure nobody ever counts pennies for you again.""
