My ex-husband was the last doctor I expected to see when the delivery room door opened at 3:17 in the morning.
Seven months earlier, Evan Mercer had ended our marriage after years of letting his mother convince him that I was the reason we could not have a child.
Now I was thirty-seven weeks pregnant, my blood pressure was climbing, and our baby’s heart rate kept dipping on the monitor beside my bed.
Evan walked in as the doctor on call.
He took one look at me, checked the chart, calculated the dates, and understood that the child I was struggling to deliver might be his.
My name is Leah Mercer, and I was thirty-eight years old when the man who had broken my heart was forced to witness the miracle his family said I could never have.
The contraction hit so hard that my fingers locked around the metal bed rail.
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