“You don’t get to look at him,” I snapped, walking away.

A week later, I heard he was engaged to Ciara. Just like his parents always wanted.

But then something unexpected happened.

At a family dinner, Ciara’s mother joked about future grandchildren. Chris reminded her, “I’m infertile.”

She laughed. “That was part of the plan.”

The plan.

That’s when it all came crashing down. His infertility? A lie. Cooked up by his parents and Ciara’s family. Even the clinic results were fake.

Chris left immediately and came to my apartment. I found him asleep on my bed, tear-streaked, broken.

“You’ve got five seconds before I call the cops,” I warned.

“Amanda, please—hear me out.”

So I did.

The truth unraveled. The false diagnosis, the betrayal, the manipulation. Everything finally made sense—my pregnancy, his silence, his disappearance.

“I should’ve trusted you,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered. “You should’ve.”

He asked to be part of Paul’s life. I wasn’t sure. It had been so hard, raising him alone. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

“I don’t know if we can go back,” I said quietly.

“I’ll earn it,” he promised. “You and Paul—you’re my real family.”

I looked into his eyes and saw it—remorse, honesty, determination.

“First,” I said, “you should meet your son.”

Then, almost involuntarily, I smiled. “And we’re probably going to have to sue Mr. Geoffrey.”

Chris let out a wet laugh.

And for the first time in a long while, it felt like maybe something good could come out of all this hurt.