He looked away.
“You switched them.”
He didn’t answer.
I lunged at him then. Not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to make us both stumble. “You let me nurse another woman’s baby.”
“Hannah—”
“You let me name her.”
His voice sharpened. “I was trying to save this family.”
I went still.
Then I said, “Save it from what?”
That was when the second part came out.
Not in one confession. In pieces. Ugly, greedy pieces.
His parents’ money had been drying up for months. His father’s trust was tied to appearances, legacy, grandchildren, “stability.” We were already drowning in debt I hadn’t known the full extent of. Daniel’s bad investments. Credit lines.
Loans.
Minimum payments shuffled like cups in a shell game.
And his affair? That had turned into a pregnancy he didn’t want anyone to know about.
When my labor went wrong, and our baby was born dead, he saw a solution.
His mistress had a healthy newborn daughter. I had a room full of pink blankets, birth announcements ready to mail, and in-laws waiting for proof that their perfect son had the perfect heir-producing marriage.
He met Nicole in a back corridor while he supposedly took Max for juice.
Cash for silence.
A baby for a lie.
