Ian had left so suddenly that many of his things were still here. The sketchbook he often used was still on the desk. She opened it and saw a drawing of her, Nathan Fawcett, and Ian—the three of them, a warm little family.
Anne Sutton's hands trembled, and tears began to fall. 'Ian…'
'He's my son!'
'My child is still alive!'
But…
'Why didn't Nathan Fawcett tell me?'
'Why did he hide it and even say Ian's mother was dead?'
'He knew perfectly well how much I love children!'
'He knew perfectly well how much I cared about that baby!'
'He really doesn't love me. He was afraid I would cling to him, so he selfishly kept the child by his side. All these years, right up to the very end, he refused to let me reunite with my son?'
'If that wasn't bad enough, he even…'
'…divorced me and took Ian away?'
Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face. Anne Sutton couldn't describe the emotions swirling within her at that moment—anger, a sense of injustice, and a deep yearning for Ian…
