I burst into tears.
Not because of the inheritance.
Not because of the money.
Because for the first time since my father’s death, someone spoke about him as if he still mattered.
And somehow, that healed a part of me I didn’t even realize was broken.
Months passed.
My pregnancy progressed beautifully.
I focused on my future.
On my baby.
On rebuilding a life that wasn’t dependent on anyone else’s approval.
Then, during an ultrasound appointment, Daniel suddenly went quiet.
My stomach dropped.
“What’s wrong?”
He stared at the screen.
Then smiled.
A huge smile.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
He laughed.
“Because you’re going to need more cribs.”
I blinked.
“What?”
Daniel turned the monitor toward me.
And pointed.
“There.”
Then another.
“And there.”
Then another.
