The weekend was supposed to be perfect—just the two of us in the countryside, before the baby came. He wanted to show me where he grew up. Where he became the man I loved.
At first, it was beautiful. Peaceful. He kissed me in a pasture while cows grazed nearby. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
When we arrived at the farmhouse, things felt off. Too many people, too much noise. His mother’s smile was too practiced. His cousin Jane pulled me aside, whispering, “They like to control things—especially the baby. He’s different around them.”
The next morning, he said it calmly: “I think we should raise the baby here. My family can help.” It didn’t feel like a suggestion. It felt like a decision.
I went for a walk to clear my head and found an old barn. Inside were photos—one showed him with a woman who looked just like me. But it wasn’t me. It was my mother.
When I confronted him, the truth shattered everything: “She was mine before you. I never stopped thinking about her. You… brought her back.”
He hadn’t just fallen for me—he had been chasing a ghost. A second chance. Through me.
I had to choose: run, or face the past to protect my future.
I stayed. Not for him. For me. For my child. Because sometimes the truth, as twisted as it is, is the only way forward.
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