Madison lowered her gaze as though she felt embarrassed, but the satisfied curve of her mouth told me otherwise.
One year earlier, they had handed me divorce papers three days after my final failed fertility treatment.
Ethan told everyone I had become bitter, unstable, and obsessed with having a baby.
Madison supported his story, claiming I had pushed him away.
Together, they kept the house, most of our friends, and even the charity foundation I had spent years building from nothing.
For months, I woke with my hands pressed against my empty stomach, wondering whether every cruel accusation they had made was true.
I stopped answering calls.
I moved into a small rented apartment above a bakery and spent countless nights reading medical reports I barely understood, desperately searching for the mistake that had destroyed the future I believed I would have.
Ethan and Madison assumed I disappeared because they had broken me.
