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She would stare at the infant’s face and make pointed remarks about “not knowing what really happened,” subtly implying that Noah wasn’t Caleb’s child. Caleb always told me to ignore her, believing his mother would eventually come around. He was a man of immense faith in people, a trait that made his sudden death at twenty-seven all the more devastating.
One day he was there, making promises about the future, and the next, a massive heart attack turned my world to ice. The funeral was a fragmented blur of grief, dominated by Deborah’s performative wailing. It was only a week later that she revealed her true nature, informing me that the apartment was in the family’s name and that I was no longer welcome. Her accusation was the final blow: “You got pregnant somewhere else and tried to trap my son.”
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