An hour later, the door opened again—slowly this time.
Ethan.
My husband.
His eyes immediately found mine… then the bruise forming on my cheek.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice tight.
I didn’t soften the truth.
“Your mother came here,” I said. “She tried to take Noah. She hit me.”
He froze.
“What?”
“She had adoption papers. She wanted to give him to Karen.”
Silence.
Heavy. Crushing.
Ethan ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, then stopping.
“She wouldn’t—”
“She did.”
He looked at me again.
Really looked.
And something in his expression broke.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly.
I studied him.
For years, I had hidden parts of myself to keep peace in his family. I had stayed small. Silent.
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