started crying.
Not because everything was suddenly perfect.
It wasn’t.
He had still kept a secret from me.
His family had still hidden the truth.
And somewhere out there was another Michael Carter who had spent years borrowing pieces of my husband’s identity.
But one question had finally been answered.
Our baby was not proof of betrayal.
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It was proof that Michael had spent years living under someone else’s diagnosis.
On the drive home, he reached for my hand.
“I should have told you what I believed.”
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you would leave.”
I looked at him.
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“I nearly did today.”
He swallowed.
“I know.”
Then I placed his hand over my stomach.
“We have a lot to fix.”
He looked at me.
“But we fix it together?”
I nodded.
Together.”
And for