Someone called an ambulance. I stood frozen, horror swallowing my anger.

Hours later, in the hospital waiting room, Mia sat stiff beside me. Neither of us spoke—until she did.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” she whispered.

“Do I?”

She exhaled shakily. “The baby isn’t his. And he was never my boyfriend.”

I blinked. “Then who?”

“A guy named Dylan. He left when he found out.” Her voice wavered. “I had nowhere to go. Joshua helped me. He took me in, gave me food, told me to reach out to you… but I wasn’t ready. Not after how we left things.”

Guilt crashed over me. I had pushed her away. She hadn’t betrayed me—I had failed her.

When Joshua’s wife, Suzanne, arrived, panic-stricken, the doctor emerged.

“Your husband has a subdural hematoma. We need immediate surgery.”

Suzanne sobbed. “We can’t afford that.”

I hesitated for only a moment. Then, I did the only thing I could.

That night, I returned with an envelope—all my savings, every cent I could scrape together. I shoved it into Suzanne’s hands.

“Take it. For the surgery.”

Her lips trembled. “Elliot, I—”

“He’s my best friend. And he’s been more of a father to Mia than I have. I owe him this.”

Joshua survived. When he woke, I was the first to apologize, the words tumbling out in a mess of guilt and relief.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered with a weak smile.

And Mia—my stubborn, strong-willed daughter—took my hand.

“I’ll come home,” she whispered. “But only if you promise to try. To trust me.”

Tears burned in my eyes. I nodded.

“I promise.”