He confessed everything. The first time happened during a period when she had run away from home at seventeen. She came to him claiming she had nowhere else to go. What started as “comfort” turned into something unspeakable. The second child was also his.
He had spent all this time supporting her financially, not out of fatherly duty alone — but out of guilt and fear. Fear of prison. Fear of exposure. Fear of losing everything.
I felt sick. Betrayed. Numb. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely stand.
And then came another blow.
The current pregnancy was not his.
She admitted she didn’t know who the father was. Several men. No stability. No protection. Just chaos.
I told him about the apartment.
He begged me not to leave. He cried. He said he would confess. He said he would “fix it.”
But some things can’t be fixed.
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