The weight of thirty-six hours of labor lingered as I held my newborn son, feeling a mix of exhaustion and awe. Ethan sat close, his hand gently on my leg, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “You did it, Caroline,” he whispered, his voice full of pride. “You brought him to us.”
We had finally arrived — after years of heartbreak, countless nights clinging to each other, holding onto hope. Now, here he was, breathing softly in my arms.
But our peaceful moment didn’t last.
The door swung open, and in walked Ethan’s mother, Linda, her heels clicking against the floor, disrupting the quiet sanctuary. She carried an oversized gift box with a large bow, her smile broad, as if she were the guest of honor. She barely looked at me, her focus entirely on Ethan. “My boy!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking the calm.
A part of me hoped this time would be different, that maybe this gift was for the baby—or even for me. But as she crossed the room, her eyes sparkling with pride, I felt my chest tighten, the familiar feeling of being overlooked settling in.
Linda handed the extravagant box to Ethan, hardly acknowledging me. “Look at you, Ethan! Head of the family now.” Her gaze flicked my way, indifferent. “Caroline’s done her job.”
The words cut deep. Only a vessel, just a role to fill. I tried to hold back the hurt, but a tear slipped down my cheek as I turned away. Linda noticed, clearly pleased. “Get some rest, dear,” she said with a thin smile. “You’ve done your part.”
I felt my body go tense, silently pleading for Ethan to say something, to defend me. He glanced between us, hesitation in his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, his expression shifted.
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