The months passed in a blur of exhaustion and guilt. I spoke to David every night, pretending everything was normal.
“How’s work?” he’d ask.
“Busy,” I’d reply softly. “But it’s okay.”
His mother called sometimes, polite but cold. When I visited, she barely looked at me. Yet one afternoon, as I stood beside David’s bed, she glanced at my stomach — and in that brief moment, I saw something in her eyes. Guilt.
She knew.
The Birth of David’s Final Gift
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