My heart sank. I rushed downstairs and found my mother rocking Emily as if nothing had changed. I handed her the note, my voice trembling.
“What is this? What happened?”
Her expression was unreadable. Then, gently, she spoke.
“I overheard Michael on the phone. He was speaking to someone—his boss. They were planning to meet… and it wasn’t work-related.”
I shook my head. “He wouldn’t do that. He was excited about this baby.”
She looked at me with quiet sadness. “He had made choices, Elena. He wasn’t being honest. I confronted him. I gave him the chance to tell you himself. But instead, he left.”
I was torn between disbelief and heartbreak. Had my mother done the right thing? Or had she made a decision I should’ve made myself?
“I should’ve known,” I whispered. “I deserved to hear it from him.”
She placed a hand on mine. “I only wanted to protect you. Your pregnancy was already difficult. I didn’t want to see you hurt even more.”
And though I felt anger, I also knew she acted out of love. The following days were filled with questions and quiet grief. Then, one afternoon, a call I made to Michael unexpectedly connected. He answered, groggy and unguarded.
“Is it true?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied softly. “All of it. I’m with someone else now. I have to give this a chance.”
That was the last time I heard his voice. Later, his lawyer arranged for the house to be transferred to my name, and he vanished from our lives completely.
Even now, I don’t know if my mother did the right thing. Maybe she did what she believed would protect me. Maybe Michael would’ve left anyway. But here’s what I do know: I stayed.
I stayed through the tears and the sleepless nights. Through the questions and the quiet strength it took to raise Emily on my own.
And that will always be enough.