“He had debts,” she said, reading from her notes. “Gambling. Bad investments. He was millions in the red. He was planning to… he said he hoped it would look like an accident. He knew your house and the restaurant were in your name. You were his… his inheritance.”
The word hung in the air. Inheritance.
The man I had loved for seven years hadn’t just fallen out of love. He had been planning my death. The baby wasn’t a “problem” because of his business; the baby was a complication to a murder plot. My pregnancy had just made him more desperate, more urgent.
The betrayal was so profound, so complete, it left me hollow.
He’s in prison now. Serving a long sentence for attempted murder and a list of other charges. He’s a monster. A story I will one day have to tell my son.
But that day is not today.
Today, I sit in the quiet of the NICU, the only sound the gentle beep of the monitors. I have my finger pressed against the plastic wall of the incubator.
My son, Leo, is sleeping. His tiny hand, impossibly small, is wrapped around my fingertip.
He’s so strong. The doctors say it’s a miracle he survived the cold, the stress, the premature birth.
But I know the truth.
I look at his perfect, sleeping face, and I whisper the words I will tell him every night for the rest of his life.
“I survived because of you. You kept my heart beating. You gave me a reason to fight the cold. You saved me, Leo. We saved each other.”
