It was 3 a.m. when my son's body went rigid with a fever seizure. I stormed into the ER, hair a wild mess, clutching his burning little frame.
Behind the on-duty doctor's mask, those cold eyes looked impossibly, infuriatingly familiar.
It was him. My ex-husband. The man who vanished four years ago without a single word.
He stared down at the chart, his voice flat as if I were a total stranger. "Where's the child's father? Why isn't he here?"
I pulled my son protectively closer, gritted my teeth, and let out a bitter laugh. "Dead. The grass on his grave is already six feet tall."
Snap. The pen in his hand snapped clean in two.
His head flew up. Bloodshot eyes locked on me—then on the little boy in my arms, the very image of himself.
