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To understand the depth of Deborah’s cruelty, one has to understand the road Caleb and I traveled to bring Noah into the world. We had spent years navigating the exhausting terrain of infertility, marked by silent tears in bathroom stalls and the crushing weight of negative tests. When we finally conceived, we wept on the floor in sheer relief.
Noah was born with a large, port-wine stain birthmark covering half of his face. In the delivery room, the silence was thick with that brand of pity that feels like an insult. I panicked, already imagining the cruelty the world would inflict on him. But Caleb didn’t hesitate. He kissed our son’s cheek and whispered, “Hey, buddy. We’ve been waiting for you.” He loved Noah without reservation. Deborah, however, saw the birthmark as an opportunity to sow seeds of doubt.
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