Chapter 2

I didn't have an abortion.

Adrian's call hit me like a bucket of ice water. Whatever feelings I still had for him were gone in an instant. But that call also woke up the pure stubbornness inside me.

Who did Adrian think he was? How could he just show up, say "no," and decide whether a life got to exist? How could he so easily take away my right to be a mother?

No matter what, I was going to have this baby.

Not only was I having this baby, but I was going to raise them right. We would stay far away from Adrian.

I dealt with the "breakup money" right away. What Adrian and his team thought was a huge payout barely got me a down payment on a cramped, run-down one-bedroom apartment way out past Jingleston's outskirts.

The place was tiny, faced north, and turned into an icebox in winter.

But it was mine anyway, my own little nest.

I counted every penny just to make it through pregnancy. When morning sickness was at its worst, I'd spend hours hunched over the toilet, throwing up until I felt like I was turning inside out. Later, with my belly getting bigger, I'd drag myself alone to prenatal checkups. I'd watch other women with their husbands beside them, caring and protective, while I just clutched my bill and waited quietly in line.

I kept every ultrasound photo like a treasure, watching that little shape grow arms and legs, slowly turning into a tiny person. That miracle and unbreakable bond between us was the only thing that kept me going through loneliness and pain.

I tuned out entertainment news completely, setting my phone to block anything about Adrian or Mandy.

Adrian and everything from that broken marriage got locked away in the farthest corner of my heart, buried deep and forgotten.

From then on, my world only revolved around the little life growing inside me.

*****

Nine months later, I was in the delivery room, screaming in pain. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the bed rails, sweat soaking through my hospital gown. There was no family by my side, only the calm, steady voice of the midwife guiding me through each push.

When that first sharp newborn cry filled the air, I felt my whole body weak. I was exhausted, but tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.

It was a boy. His little body was red and wrinkly, like a tiny monkey, but to me, he was perfect, the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

The nurse laid him gently on my chest. He was soft, fragile, and warm, smelling faintly of milk and new life.

I reached out with a shaking hand and brushed his delicate cheek. At that moment, every piece of my broken heart was washed clean by a fierce, unstoppable love that filled me to the brim.

"Baby..." My voice cracked, rough and trembling, but full of tenderness after the labour. "From now on, it's just the two of us."

"I'll name you Easton. Easton Hale," I whispered, my heart overflowing.

"You have my last name," I murmured softly.

My son, you were my every hope.

*****

Time slipped through fingers like sand in the wind.

In the blink of an eye, Easton was already five.

That wrinkly little baby had grown into a boy so beautiful that it almost didn't feel real. He had smooth skin and big, bright eyes. His lashes were so long that they brushed his cheeks with a tiny, straight nose, pink lips, and a dazzling smile. When he went quiet and thoughtful, there was something in his face that made me freeze.

For a moment, I'd see someone else in him.

But I'd shake it off quickly. Easton was my son, and mine alone. He had nothing to do with Adrian.

The past five years hadn't been easy, but at least my life felt real and steady.

The breakup money ran out long ago. To raise my son, I took whatever jobs I could—cashier at a convenience store, waitress at a diner, salesgirl at a mall. Later, I started helping at an old tailor shop. Bit by bit, I learned to sew and do small alterations.

The pay wasn't much, but it was enough to feed us and keep a roof over our heads.

Easton was so well-behaved that it almost hurt to see. He knew life was tough, so he never cried or made a fuss. After kindergarten, he'd carry his little stool to the corner of the tailor shop and sit there quietly, drawing or writing while he waited for me to finish work.

He loved drawing stars. Every page he filled was covered with them—big ones, small ones, golden ones—spreading light across the paper.

One day, he looked up at me with those bright eyes and asked, "Mommy, is Daddy a star now?"

I stopped stitching and nearly jabbed myself with the needle.

It felt like someone reached into my chest and squeezed my heart tight.

I knelt down, wrapped my arms around him, and buried my face in his soft hair. "Why do you think that, sweetheart?" I asked gently.

"Well, all the other kids have their dads pick them up. I don't," he said, his little voice quiet and unsure. "My teacher said when people die, they turn into stars in the sky. Mommy, did my dad die and become a star watching over us?"

My throat tightened, and my eyes stung with tears.

I hugged him tighter. "No, baby. Your dad isn't dead. He's just... working somewhere really, really far away. He's very busy," I choked out.

"How far? Farther than the stars?" he asked.

"Yeah," I whispered. "Even farther than the stars."

"Will he ever come back? Does he remember us, Mommy?" he pressed.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. How could I tell a five-year-old that his father hadn't forgotten us and that he had never wanted to remember us in the first place?

"Mommy." Easton reached up, his tiny fingers brushing my tears. "Don't cry, Mommy," he said softly. "I don't need a dad. I have you. I'll protect you."

His little voice was trembling but so serious, and his small hand patted my back in that clumsy, gentle way only a child could.

My tears fell even harder, but somehow, his sweet, innocent promise warmed my heart in a way.

"Alright, I won't cry," I said, wiping my face and forcing a smile. "You'll protect me, Easton. It's just you and me, and that's all we need."