I didn’t show her a dress. I showed her the screenshot from the baby monitor—her standing over Ben’s crib, caught in the infrared glow of the camera. The color drained from her face so quickly she had to reach out to a nearby mannequin for support.
“He’s doing wonderful, by the way,” I said, standing up slowly. “And so am I. It’s amazing how much lighter a life feels when you cut out the rot.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a business card I had printed earlier. It was for a therapist specializing in delusional and obsessive behaviors. I set it on the table between us. “You should keep this,” I said quietly. “Just in case you ever get confused again and think someone else’s child belongs to you.”
I walked out of the store without looking back. Continue reading…
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