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I’d even printed out brochures from three different adoption agencies. They sat in a neat pile on the kitchen counter, next to a bottle of his favorite wine.
When Ryan walked in, I knew. His mouth was a tight line, his hands shoved into his coat pockets like he didn’t want to touch anything, especially not me.
“You okay? I made your favorite.”
He glanced at the candles, food, and wine on the table, and something in his expression crumbled.
“Hannah…”
“What’s wrong?” I stepped closer. “Did something happen at work?”
He stood there for a second too long, staring at the floor.
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