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My mother had slapped me.
My mother-in-law had humiliated my newborn.
And my husband had been forced to choose whether his family name mattered more than the people lying in that hospital room.
He had chosen us.
That mattered.
But it couldn’t erase what had happened.
An hour later, his sister called.
My husband answered on speaker.
“We found something,” she said.
My husband straightened.
“What?”
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“There are photographs.”
“Of what?”
“A lot of them.”
My stomach dropped.
His sister continued.
“Photos of the baby things. The nursery. The hospital bag. Your wife sleeping in the living room a few weeks ago. Even screenshots of messages between you two.”
My husband closed his eyes.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
His sister hesitated.
“There’s a notebook.”
