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The day Harper told me it was over, I didn’t feel a rush of triumph. I felt a profound, exhausting relief. The money was mine, and by extension, it was Noah’s. I sat in her office and cried—not for the money itself, but for the realization that love is a force that can reach back from the grave to offer protection. A month later, I signed the deed to a small, modest house with a sun-drenched kitchen and a patch of grass in the back. It wasn’t just a building; it was a sanctuary where Noah would never have to feel like an unwanted guest.
On moving day, I stood in the empty living room and watched the light hit the birthmark on Noah’s face. For the first time, I didn’t see a “mark” or a reason for shame. I saw a beautiful boy who was the living embodiment of his father’s devotion. I whispered a thank you into the silence—to Harper for her strength, to myself for surviving the nights I thought would break me, and to Caleb for building a roof over our heads when he was no longer here to hold it up himself.
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