His Secret Child, My Shattered Dreams

wasn't seeing the legal jargon, I was seeing my sister, Lily, her face pale against the hospital sheets, her hand clutching mine. I was sixteen when she died in childbirth, taking her baby

B/GYN, a man who saw miracles every day, but he understood my trauma. Five years ago, he had held my face in his hands and promised me. "Ava," he' d said,

name when our friends brought their kids over. I saw the way his parents, Richard and Eleanor Hayes, looked at me at family dinners – like I was a beautiful but flawed

o give in. Not for them, but for him. For the man I loved more than I feared the ghosts

hope. This morning, two pink lines appeared on a small plastic stick, and the world shifted on its axis. My hands trembled, but for the fi

drove to his clinic, my heart pounding a rhythm of "he'll be so happy, he'll be so happy." The clinic was a

, hand him the box, and watch his face as he opened it. Through the large window of his main co

. She was heavily, undeniably pregnant. Ethan's hand was not on a chart or a medical instrument. It was resting on her swollen belly, a gesture of stu

ing into a dull roar in my ears. The scene was picturesque, perfect. A loving doct

m it was a tiny, intricate key. A key I knew well. It was the matching half to the silver locket I wore around my

ed, hitting the concrete with a soft thud. The lid popped open, and the tiny white sneaker