Years ago, I'd taken a knife meant for Greta when kidnappers had her. The wound damaged something vital. After that, I couldn't... perform the way I used to.
Our first child—conceived through IVF—had made it to seven months.
Then one night, Greta decided to "help" Noel Swanson when he'd been drugged with an aphrodisiac. She spent the night with him. The hemorrhaging that followed forced an emergency termination.
That baby had already formed. A boy.
I'd planned to give him a proper memorial, a place in the ancestral tomb.
But the fortune teller said a child lost before full term at an inauspicious time needed to wait. The timing wasn't right.
So I waited. Over a year.
Throughout this pregnancy, Greta had whispered in my ear countless times that she wanted to give John's name to this bastard child.
I never agreed.
But now, looking at the hopeful light in her eyes, all I could think about was how disgusted I was by her tears back then. How fake they must have been.
I knew Grandma Evelyn would never have chosen this name.
This was Noel's doing. He loved taking everything that was mine, and he'd planted the idea in Greta's ear.
The divorce was already set in stone. The child could keep the surname of his heartless mother—I didn't care anymore.
"Whatever. Call him what you want."
"I only have one condition. Don't list me as the father. My real son's spirit wouldn't be happy."
Greta paused. A flicker of guilt crossed her eyes.
"Bob Swanson, don't worry. I'm only using the fact that Noel shares half your bloodline. He and I never—"
She didn't finish.
A crash echoed from outside the door.
"You animal! Who gave you permission to be here?!"
Noel Swanson lay crumpled on the floor, eyes red-rimmed.
"I just wanted to see the baby."
Grandma Evelyn's cane struck him again and again.
"Get out!"
In that instant, Greta became a startled bird. She forgot she'd just given birth—forgot her own body—and shoved the baby into my arms before bolting out the door.
When she moved, I saw them: hundreds of needle marks dotting both her arms, each one the width of a child's finger. Scattered among them were self-inflicted wounds, now splitting open under the pressure.
Yet she walked away as if I were invisible.
The way she'd thrown herself under Grandma's cane without hesitation, shielding Noel behind her—it made every word of comfort she'd offered me moments ago feel like a cruel joke.