I Raised My Husband's Love Child...Then He Shot Me

Chapter 34

At the end of the hallway, Nora's sobs echoed, blending with the doctor's soft attempts to comfort her. But all Jonathan could hear was my voice—those final words—playing on a loop in his head.

His phone buzzed. A message from Yvonne lit up the screen:

[Your dad wants you home. Nora and her daughter are demanding answers.]

He stared at the message, unmoving, until a bitter laugh broke from his chest.

Tears slid down his face and splashed onto the screen.

How pathetic. He'd really believed that once the baby was gone, things would go back to how they were—that I'd just come running back. But the version of Daphne who once loved him? She'd died a long time ago, buried under every betrayal and disappointment.

Upstairs, Wendy stirred as the anesthesia wore off. Her hand instinctively reached for her now-flat stomach—and then, a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the hospital room.

Since I found out I couldn't have children, I'd been supporting orphanages. It was a quiet way to fill the ache I carried.

Now that the studio was on break, I finally had time to visit one of the orphanages I'd been funding back home.

Julian had insisted on tagging along. Once he found out I was going, he packed his bags without asking and followed me to my hometown.

The early winter sun poured softly over the playground. Kids ran in circles around me, all yelling and giggling, begging to play tag.

I crouched to tie a little girl's shoelace. As soon as I finished, she threw herself into my arms, her voice sweet and clear.

"Ms. Daphne! You be the mama hen!"

I laughed, standing tall and stretching my arms wide.

"Alright then! Everyone line up behind Mama Hen!"

Their laughter rang out like wind chimes, filling the air. And for the first time in a long while, I felt my heart quiet. The anxiety, the lingering sadness—it faded into the background.

Julian stood under a tree nearby, camera in hand, silently taking it all in. His gaze followed me like always, and every time I turned, I caught the gentle smile in his eyes.

"Ms. Daphne, look at the bunny I made!"

A little girl with braided pigtails held up a paper rabbit proudly.

I took it from her and smiled. It brought back a memory I hadn't thought about in ages—Jonathan, clumsily folding paper roses for me, years ago.

Some memories stay with you forever. Even if I didn't love him anymore, I had loved him once. That part had been real.

"What are you thinking about?"

Julian had walked up beside me, handing over a cup of warm water.

"Nothing really," I replied, taking it. "Just thinking how cute the kids are."

He followed my gaze to the children inside the classroom, then asked softly,

"Still struggling with it?"

I knew what he meant—my infertility.

My hand drifted to my stomach on instinct. I gave a small smile.

"Maybe a little. But I'm okay. Medicine's come a long way. Who knows? Maybe there'll be another chance someday."

Julian looked at me intently.

"Daphne," he said, his voice gentle, "children aren't here to fix anything. Not to carry on a legacy. Not to hold a relationship together."

He nodded toward the orphanage director, who was guiding the kids with their crafts.

"Look at Ms. Lily. She never got married, never had children of her own. And yet, she's a mother to hundreds."

The sunlight poured through the windows, casting a golden glow across his face. His lashes threw soft shadows on his cheeks, and for a second, I forgot to breathe.

"Don't ever feel like you're less than," he whispered, "just because you can't have a child."

"Big bro!" A little boy barreled toward him, grabbing his leg. "Come play soccer with us!"

Julian gave me a sheepish smile before letting himself be dragged off across the yard.

I watched him go, something warm and steady blooming in my chest.

Later that evening, I sat on a swing, rocking gently as the sky turned dusky pink.

Julian walked over, holding two cups of hot cocoa. He handed me one and sat beside me.

"Have fun today?" he asked.

I took a sip. The cocoa was rich, sweet, comforting.

"Yeah," I said, my voice soft. "Thanks for coming with me."