hea

called it a chemical straitjacket. They had forced it on me, a cocktail of sedatives and a bone-weakening agent, just before Ashli went into labor. To ensure I didn't "do anything rash," Barrett had explained, his vo

. He sat by the window, bathed in the pale morning light, holding the tiny bundle in his arms. A genuine smile, a pure, unadulterated joy I hadn't seen on his face in years, lit up his features. It

He rose, carefully placing the baby in a bassinet besid

previous tenderness. "You're awake. Good. The nur

I took it, the pen cold and unfamiliar against my skin. My eyes scanned the document, moving past the date, the hospital name, t

e room spinning violently. My mind, previously fogg

i

ny ear moments after she was born. The name that held all our dreams, all our hopes, a beacon of pure, innocent love. It was the name I had chosen, not jus

the first test-tube baby we conceived after the accident, after the doctors told me my body, shattered during Hudson's reckless driving and Ashli's distracting call, could no longer carry a

despair when I lost him, a tiny life snuffed out before it even had a chance to breathe. And who was on the phone with Hu

d with the name Lily. But the family patriarch, Barrett, ever the pragmatist, had delayed it, citing "public imag

insisted was a way to "honor" our deceased daughter. Each time, I had shut him down, my voice cold, my refu

as real. Sign

joy he radiated for this new life – a life built on my ruins, stealing my sacred gri

such a blatant insult to me and my dead daughter. This could only have been Ashli's doing, whispered into Hudso

nd I craved it with a hunger that eclipsed all other emotions. His family name, the illustrious Marks, felt like a brand of sh

my knuckles white, a sile