Raising His Secret Son

When the phone rang, I was folding my husband Trace's shirt. It was an unknown number, with the caller's location displayed as L City. "May I ask if you are a family member of Trace Ford?" The voice on the other end of the phone was low and steady. My hand froze for a moment. "I am his wife, Isabella Chandler." I said. "Your husband was in a car accident on the highway," the caller paused for two seconds, "Despite efforts to save him, he has passed away." A buzzing filled my ears, as if they were stuffed with cotton. The shirt slipped from my hands and fell to the floor. "Car accident?" I repeated the words, my voice unsteady, "Wasn't he supposed to be on a business trip?" Trace said he was going to L City to discuss a project and had gone for five days. He would call me every night by video. Yesterday, he was still smiling, saying he would be back in a couple of days with some local snacks for me. "There was also a female passenger in the same car who unfortunately died as well." The officer said. A female passenger? My heart suddenly sank. By the time I arrived at the hospital, it was already dark. The cold air in the mortuary crept up my legs. The police lifted a corner of the white sheet—it was Trace. His eyes were closed, and his face still bore specks of blood. I reached out to touch his face; as soon as my fingertips brushed it, an icy chill pushed me back. "The lady beside him is Emma Gray." The police officer pointed to the stretcher beside us. I turned to look, and the woman's hair was spread out on the pillow, her face as pale as paper. By her side stood a little boy, about seven years old, wearing a blue school uniform. He didn't cry; he simply stared with a pair of dark, heavy eyes at the woman on the stretcher. That gaze was calm, unlike a child's—especially the curve of his brows and eyes—it was strikingly like Trace. "This is Emma Gray's son, Nicholas Ford." The police said. Nicholas Ford. It felt as if my heart had been pierced by a needle. At that moment, a nurse handed me an envelope. "This is the will that Mr. Trace Ford prepared before he passed away; his lawyer just sent it over." I opened the envelope, and the paper bore Trace's familiar handwriting. "All assets belong to my wife, Isabella Chandler. And the son, Nicholas Ford, shall be raised by Isabella." The son? Nicholas is Trace's son? I looked at the little boy, and he happened to look up at me. There was no fear in his eyes, only a strange wariness.