It wasn't long after his mother's call that Harrison showed up, a cold look on his face.

A nurse happened to mention that I'd had a son.

I saw a flash of shock in his eyes.

Then, he recovered and said quickly, “In that case, please schedule a paternity test as soon as possible.”

His mother, who was just returning, overheard him.

Her face turned gray with fury.

“Harrison! Your wife just nearly died giving you a son, and this is how you insult her? Are you even human?”

Afraid of truly angering his mother, Harrison backtracked.

“I was joking.”

I heard him, too.

But I wasn’t angry.

I already knew he suspected the baby wasn’t his.

Even though I’d told him several times that it was his child, conceived through IVF.

He didn't believe me.

So I stopped trying to convince him.

His mother brought him into the room and then left us alone.

Harrison stood by the door, not coming any closer, as if he were visiting a stranger.

I didn’t care.

The silence in the room was thick and heavy.

After a while, he finally walked over and spoke, his words as cruel as ever.

“You’re the one who wanted this baby, so don’t expect me to raise it.”

As he said it, he watched my face, trying to get a reaction.

I just gave him a small, calm smile.

“Mom has already hired the best maternity nurse. The baby will be taken care of.”

My answer seemed to annoy him.

He frowned.

“And don’t think you can use this kid to tie me down. I’m not going to…”

“It’s fine,” I said, cutting him off gently. “You can just be yourself.”

“Mom will handle the baby. He won’t be a bother to you.”

My composure was clearly not what he expected.

His lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

I remembered, right after we were married, telling him that if we ever had children, I would give them a complete family.

That I would make sure our child felt the love from a mother and a father that I never had.

But now, I had no expectations of him at all.

He opened his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at the caller ID, then at me, and stepped out into the hallway to take the call.

I could still hear the pouting voice on the other end.

“The baby isn’t even yours, why are you even there? I want to go to that concert tonight, and I want you to take me…”

He stepped out to take the call and never came back.

Just then, an expectant mother walked past my door, leaning on her husband's arm.

“Honey, do you think the baby will look like you or me?” she asked.

“Like you,” he said. “Beautiful, just like you.”

The woman laughed, and her husband laughed with her, his eyes never leaving her face.

He held her so carefully, so afraid she might stumble.

They were glowing with happiness.

A pang of envy hit me.

If only I had someone who loved me.

Just then, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A notification from my bank.

“You have received a Zelle payment of $10,000.”

I picked it up and read the memo.

“From Mom.”

I closed my eyes for a second, then put the phone down.

I didn't send it back.

After all, I had earned it.

I stayed in the hospital for a few more days before his mother took me home to recover.

She promised me that the day my postpartum recovery period was over would be the day Harrison and I divorced.

With her promise, my restless heart finally found a sense of peace.

That night, the director of my old orphanage called me out of the blue.

She said she’d found my birth parents, but they had passed away a long time ago.

They had left a letter and a key for me.

I needed to go to the police station in their old hometown to pick them up.

I jotted down the address, and as I was tucking the note into my phone case, I heard the bedroom door open.

Harrison walked in.

The smell of whiskey hit me as he approached.

Before I could say anything, he collapsed onto the bed beside me and closed his eyes.

“Mom told me I need to start treating you right,” he mumbled. “That we need to make this work.”