If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t say it out loud. Maybe I should have. Maybe you deserved that. But I was afraid.

I don’t remember his name. It was one night. I was lost back then—adrift while you were gone. When you came home, I wanted to believe none of it mattered. That we could still be us.

Then Evie arrived. She looked like me. And you held her like the world made sense again. I buried the truth because Addison told me you wouldn’t survive it. Your mother is rarely wrong.

But lies grow. It filled our house, slipped into our bed, followed me everywhere.

I watched you become the most beautiful father—gentle, patient, full of awe. I couldn’t be that kind of pure.

You never once looked at her like she wasn’t yours. I couldn’t look at her without wondering.

Please keep her safe. Let her stay little a bit longer. I left because staying would’ve shattered what was still intact.

I love her. And I love you. Just not in the same way anymore.

—J.

The next morning, Evie stirred against me, her curls tangled, her stuffed duck tucked under her chin. I hadn’t slept much. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. I wanted to be angry at Jess—but I didn’t know how.

Instead, I felt like I’d failed everyone.

“Where’s Mommy?” Evie asked sleepily.

“She had to go somewhere,” I said softly. “But I’m right here.”

She didn’t reply—just pressed her cheek against my chest.

Later, I sat on the edge of the bed and removed my prosthetic. My stump throbbed, skin red and tender. I reached for the ointment.

Evie climbed up beside me.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, wide-eyed.

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