Eight months after the divorce, my phone buzzed with his name. “Come to my wedding,” he said, smug as ever. “She’s pregnant—unlike you.” I froze, fingers tightening around the hospital sheet.

leather chair beside her. As the SUV pulled away from the church, leaving the screaming family and the ruined wedding far behind, I looked down at her tiny, perfect face.

The room had smelled of antiseptic and old pain, but out here, the air was entirely clean.

“We’re going home, sweetie,” I whispered, kissing her soft cheek. “Just you and me. And we continue reading …