The first betrayal wasn’t the bus—it was the way his eyes slid past me, like I was just another patient being discharged, not the woman who’d nearly died to give him a son. Five days after my C‑section, clutching my newborn while antiseptic clung to my skin, he pressed a crumpled bill into my palm and pointed at the bus stop, turning back to polish “his” Mayb… Continues…
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