“She’s a witch!” the woman screeched, her voice slicing through the sterile air of the hospital room. All eyes were on her, a tempest of rage in high heels and designer fabric.
Ethan’s fiancée, a woman I barely knew, looked like she’d unraveled in the last thirty minutes. Her eyes were wild, hair disheveled, and her manicured finger shook as she pointed at my innocent daughter, who slept soundly, oblivious to the chaos unfurling around her.
Ethan stepped protectively in front of the crib. “Madeline, stop!” His voice was firm, though I could see the tremor in his stance, the uncertainty that had always lurked beneath his confident exterior.
Madeline’s eyes darted between Ethan and me, calculating, her mind churning over possibilities like a gambler trying to bluff her way through a losing hand. “She can’t be yours, Ethan. She can’t!” She repeated, her voice breaking into a desperate sob.
I finally found my voice, a calm cutting through the pandemonium. “Madeline, there’s no conspiracy here. No trick. This is my child, and she’s very much Ethan’s too.”
