Invoicing My Husband For His Bastard

Summary

The night Noah’s fever spiked to 102 degrees, I was frantically tearing through the medicine cabinet when I found the birth certificate.

Under Mother, there was a name typed in crisp, black ink.

It wasn't mine.

Enid Cross.

I sank to the bathroom floor, the cold tile seeping through my sweatpants, clutching that piece of paper while Noah wailed in the bedroom down the hall.

I had raised him for three years.

I had walked away from my career, survived over a thousand sleepless nights, and poured every ounce of my soul into his little body.