Six months after the divorce, I never expected to hear my ex-husband’s voice again. Yet that morning, as I lay in a hospital bed with my newborn daughter sleeping peacefully beside me, my phone vibrated. The name on the screen made my breath hitch: Ethan Walker—my ex.

There was a pause. Then, in a dismissive tone, he said, “Alright. I just wanted you to know,” and hung up.

I stared at the ceiling, unsettled by the sudden weight in my chest. Our marriage hadn’t ended because the love disappeared. It ended because Ethan believed ambition mattered more than family. When I told him I was pregnant, he accused me of trying to trap him. A month later, he filed for divorce and vanished from my life.

Thirty minutes later, as I drifted between sleep and exhaustion, my hospital room door burst open. Nurses gasped. My mother jumped up in alarm.

Ethan rushed in, his face pale, his movements frantic. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“Ethan, you can’t just—” I started.

He didn’t listen. He went straight to the crib, staring at my baby as if time had frozen. His hands trembled. “She… she looks exactly like me,” he whispered.

The room went silent.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped.

He turned toward me, panic etched into his face. “Why didn’t you tell me the baby was a girl?”

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