Five days later, I was discharged from the hospital with a car seat and a broken heart. The house felt like a tomb when I walked through the door, the air smelling of stale coffee and resentment. Noah was sitting in the living room, his eyes bloodshot and a packed suitcase by his feet.
He didn’t even look at the baby as I walked past him toward the nursery. “I want you out by Monday,” he muttered, his voice cold and flat. I stopped in my tracks, my knees shaking. I begged him to listen, to consider a DNA test, but he just laughed a bitter, hollow sound.
“I’m not wasting a dime on a test to prove what I can see with my own eyes,” he snapped, finally standing up. He stepped into my space, the scent of bourbon overpowering. He told me to go find the “real father” and never darken his doorstep again, or he would make life unbearable.
That night, I huddled on the nursery floor, listening to the front door slam. I realized then that the man I loved was gone, replaced by a stranger fueled by pride. I called my sister, my voice cracking, and told her I needed a place to stay before the locks were changed.
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