I remembered.
I remembered every sterile room. Every careful smile from nurses who had seen too many women trying not to hope. Every month that ended with my heart breaking quietly behind a bathroom door.
I remembered Ryan saying, “Maybe you’re just too stressed,” as if my body were a problem he had grown tired of troubleshooting.
But Noah had come after treatment.
Lily had come unexpectedly four years later, a miracle I never questioned because I was too grateful to hold her.
“Could he still be their father?” I asked.
“Yes,” Dawson said. “The doctor did not say impossible. He said extraordinarily unlikely. That distinction matters. Legally, emotionally, practically—it matters.”
I swallowed hard.
“So what happens now?”
“What happens now is you get on the plane. You take the children somewhere peaceful. You do not let Ryan drag you into a storm he created.”
A boarding announcement echoed through the lounge.
