The Wife He Threw Away, Rebuilt

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t after that brutal confrontation. I thought t

htly colored thermos. His small frame was rigid, his gaze darting aro

word a hesitant question,

d observer. This was my son, born of my flesh, loved with every fiber of my being.

flicted. A part of him, perhaps, still remembered. Still yearned for the mother he'

clasp. A rich, sweet aroma, vaguely familiar, wafted from the

ld it out to me. "Carla made it for you," he mumbled, hi

a finely tuned analytical machine, processed the scene. Carla. Almond jello. Eb

tirred. He was still my son. My blood. I took the spoon from his hand.

s slammed into me, making the room spin. My body swayed, my hand clutching

my throat. Of course. Another betr

ations, reacted differently. The sedative was potent, but not enough to completely in

r. "Why did you come back? You ruined everything! Daddy and Mommy Carla were happy! I was happy!" He sounded genuinely d

ned unmoved. He was a child, ma

eek. I opened my eyes, struggling to focus

simply... sank. Deeper in

of blood welled up, tracing a path across my chee

contorted in horror. His eyes widened, his small frame trembling. He dropped

my bed, his gaze fixed on my face, on the

rtone. "Too soft. Just like his mother." He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cut. I flinched, but he h

rld blurred. Pain. So much pai

one, replaced by the familiar scent of expensive wood and fresh linen. I was in B