Grandma Evelyn finished hosting alone, the baby in her arms.
The next morning, I collected my divorce certificate.
My phone was still filled with Greta's messages demanding an apology.
I blocked her, deleted the thread, and drove to the cemetery with the certificate in my pocket.
I'd had the headstone erected two weeks ago.
John Swanson, Beloved Son.
The grief hit fresh, raw, bottomless.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—to him.
But Greta's voice cut through from behind me.
"I knew you'd be here. You always come to see the baby when you're upset. But yesterday you went too far. In front of everyone, you—"
Noel's theatrical gasp interrupted her.
"Greta! He named the grave the same as our baby! The exact same name!"
His voice pitched higher, trembling with manufactured outrage. "Bob, even if you didn't want that child, you were still going to be his father! How could you curse him to die young by giving him a dead boy's name?"
Greta frowned and stepped closer to read the headstone.
John Swanson.
Her gaze dropped to the inscription below. Only one name was listed as having erected the stone.
Father: Bob Swanson.
Not her.