She didn’t even let me see my child one last time, saying she was afraid I would be too heartbroken.
Not long after, exhausted in body and mind, I signed the divorce papers, letting Harry be with his first love.
I always thought it was Emily’s existence that indirectly caused my child’s death and she ruined everything I had.
That’s why I hated her.
But now, her “son,” with the same birthmark as my own child, appeared in front of me.
At that moment, my hatred was drowned in a mix of absurdity and fear.
I turned to the side, my voice hoarse. “Come in.”
The studio was a mess, with paints and brushes scattered all over the floor.
In these ten years, I had lived like a lonely island.
Arson was very quiet in a way that didn’t seem like a child.
He carried a small, faded backpack and stood nervously at the doorway, not daring to step inside.
“Sit.” I pointed to the only clean sofa.
He shuffled over in small steps and sat down, gripping the straps of his backpack tightly.
I suppressed the storm inside me and stared hard at the red birthmark behind his ear.
It was too much like my own child.
No—it was exactly the same.
Even in the exact same position.