I saw it clear as day–me, lying in a hospital bed, Sebastian standing over me, shoving forms into my hands.
“Sign these,” he’d said. “Emergency treatment.”
I never read them. Just scribbled my name, trusting him. Minutes later, I blacked out.
When I woke up, he was right there, holding my hand.
“The baby didn’t make it,” he whispered. “But you’re lucky to be alive.”
I believed him. Blamed myself for failing him. For failing us.
But now? Now I knew better.
The miscarriage wasn’t fate. It wasn’t my body giving up.
It was Sebastian.
For years, I’d been treated like some tragic figure–the woman who couldn’t have more kids. People pitied me. Whispered behind my back. And him? He never defended me. Not once. Just stood there, cold and silent.
Ruthless. That’s what he was. Ruthless to the core.
I thought of our neighbors. Their kids came over all the time–checking in, running errands, bringing gifts.
And me?
The son I raised–his son–was over thirty and still barking orders like I was hired help.
In his eyes, that’s all I ever was. A maid.
***
I stumbled out of the doctor’s office, clutching the test results, barely holding it together.
By the time I hit the hospital entrance, bam —— Jack.
He’d just jumped out of an ambulance, dripping sweat.
The second he spotted me, he was on me, charging like a damn bull. “Dad tried to kill himself! You were at the house–why didn’t you stop him? You heartless woman! Are you even human?”
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I almost laughed. Seriously? This was the angle he was going with?
“Sebastian tried to kill himself?” I asked, raising a brow like it was news to me.
I glanced toward the ambulance where they were unloading him on a stretcher. “I had no idea. He never lets me in his room–don’t you remember?
“He’s YOUR dad. If he wanted to die and you didn’t notice, that’s on you. Not me.
“So tell me, Jack–what gives you the right to question me?”
Jack froze, caught off guard.
An awkward silence hung between us, but it was obvious – he was relieved.
Of course. He must’ve already known about the suicide note. That’s why he was suddenly so chill when I said I hadn’t gone into Sebastian’s room.
Pathetic.
For a split second earlier, when Jack had stormed off, I’d hoped–God help me, I’d hoped—that the boy I raised might still have some shred of loyalty. Maybe this time he’d finally stand by me.
Maybe he’d feel guilty.
Maybe he’d hate his birth mother just a little for walking out on him.
But no.
Jack didn’t have an ounce of guilt.
Two seconds. That’s all it took for him to snap back into his usual self–eyes narrowing, mouth curling into a sneer. “Mom, what’s wrong with you today? You losing your mind?
“Gigi’s having surgery for a broken bone, and you don’t care. You don’t even care about Dad!
“If I hadn’t gone back to check on him, he’d be dead right now! Do you even get that?
“What kind of mother–what kind of wife are you?”
I’m not.
I met his gaze head–on. “Are YOU my son? Have you ever cared about your wife—or me?”
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A bitter laugh slipped out. It tasted sour, but I let it out anyway. “I’m not your mom. I’m just your maid.”
I stared him down, unmoving.
I was in my sixties, long past menopause. I couldn’t have children anymore.
And the only person who ever could’ve been my child?
Was standing right in front of me. Contempt written all over his face.
How pathetic.
Silence stretched. Jack’s jaw clenched, a little twitch giving him away.
But it didn’t last.
His shame twisted into anger. “There’s too much going on right now. Can’t you just be REASONABLE for once?”
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