Standing by the side of the road with everything I’d taken from the house, I froze for a second.
What now?
The question hung there, empty — until thirty years of lies and betrayal came crashing back. Anger flickered in my chest, then roared to life.
I wasn’t going to be that pathetic, clueless woman anymore.
I’d spent my whole life fading into the background — quiet, timid, forgettable.
Not anymore.
The people who hurt me? They were going to pay.
I stepped off the curb and flagged down a cab.
“Hospital,” I said, slamming the door behind me.
First stop — I was getting checked for poisoning.
***
I’d spent years living with constant aches — back pain, stiff joints, sore muscles from endless overwork. Painkillers became my lifeline, the only way to get through the day.
And, like always, I’d taken them before I left the house.
The test results came back fast.
The doctor confirmed it: I was poisoned.
The good news? They caught it early. The dose wasn’t high enough to do permanent damage.
They gave me the antidote on the spot.
I should’ve been relieved, but my mind was already on my next stop.
The gynecology department.
I needed answers about my child.
Answers I’d been too afraid to face for years.
When the test results came out, I couldn’t make sense of the medical jargon. Frustrated, I headed to the doctor’s office for an explanation.
And that’s when I ran into Jack.
He was pacing the hallway, phone pressed to his ear, looking tense. The second he spotted me, he ended the call and stormed over.
“What the hell are you doing wandering around? Why aren’t you in Gigi’s room?”
His gaze shifted to the gynecology sign behind me, and his expression twisted — irritation giving way to something nastier. Disgust.
“This isn’t a place for someone like you. What are you even doing here? Get out.”
His words dripped with disrespect.
I just stood there, watching him.
No shock. No anger. Just this cold, bitter realization washing over me.
How blind I’d been.
Before today, I saw Jack as the perfect picture of success — polished, driven, a young man in a tailored suit who seemed to have it all together.
I’d been proud of him.
I’d worried about him.
I’d loved him like he was my own.
I cooked his meals. Washed his clothes. Took care of him without a second thought.
But now? Knowing what he and Sebastian had kept from me?
All I felt was disgust.
My years of devotion had been wasted on a snake.
“I’m here to see a doctor,” I said, voice cold as ice, brushing past him with the report in hand.
In my mind, I’d already cut him out of my life the moment I read those letters.
Jack blinked, thrown by my tone.
“A doctor? You?” He snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive. “You’ve got nothing wrong with you. What the hell would you need a doctor for?”
Before I could answer, he reached out and snatched the report from my hands.
I didn’t stop him. I didn’t even flinch.
I just stood there, watching.
His eyes darted across the page.
And then it hit.
His face twisted — like someone had spilled paint across it. Shock. Confusion. Panic. All at once.
He tried to cover it up, but the twitch in his jaw gave him away.
“This… This can’t be real.” His voice wavered. “Mom… you’re not supposed to be able to—”
And just like that, he clamped his mouth shut.
Too late.
He slipped.
I’d never told him about my miscarriage.
I’d never told anyone about my infertility.
As far as Jack was supposed to know, I was his biological mother.
The only people who knew the truth were me and Sebastian.
“Who told you?” I asked, my voice razor-sharp.
Jack’s eyes darted away, panic flickering across his face. He fumbled for an answer, scrambling to cover his mistake.
“I… I don’t remember. Maybe I overheard it years ago? I think I asked Dad, and he made something up. Who knows?”
Pathetic.
His lie was flimsy. His delivery clumsy.
And suddenly, it hit me — Jack was a terrible liar. He always had been.
The real problem? I’d never bothered to question him before.
I’d been too blinded by love. Too desperate to be his mother.
Jack shoved the report back into my hands, a little too fast, clearly desperate to shift gears. “Mom, listen. You’re making a scene. This isn’t the time or place for this.”
Then his tone shifted — colder. “If you keep this up, don’t blame me for cutting ties with you.”
His glare was icy. A clear warning.
