I sat on the porch swing beside him.
In his arms slept my son.
Noah Ethan Hayes.
He had been born by emergency surgery and spent weeks fighting in the neonatal unit.
But he survived.
My father rocked him gently, humming a soft lullaby.
“She was sentenced today,” he said quietly.
“How long?” I asked.
“Twenty-five years,” he replied. “Assault and attempted feticide.”
I exhaled slowly.
My father squeezed my hand.
“I lost ten years with you because of my pride,” he said. “I’m not wasting another moment.”
I leaned against his shoulder.
My son slept peacefully in his arms.
And for the first time since Ethan died…
Everything finally felt safe again.
