I was pregnant. With twins.
Ethan would have cried with joy, pressed kisses to my stomach, and immediately started debating baby names. But me? I was petrified.
I could barely manage my own survival, let alone care for two newborns. The doctor explained it was a high-risk pregnancy. I needed strict bed rest, regular monitoring, and daily support. Staying alone was no longer possible.
But who was left? My mom had died when I was a teen, and Ethan’s parents had relocated to Arizona. That left one person — my dad.
Dad’s house wasn’t only his anymore. He’d married Veronica, a younger woman with glossy blonde hair, immaculate nails, and the kind of beauty that belonged on a magazine cover. She looked like she fit in at upscale cocktail parties, not standing over a stove.
Still, I hoped it would work. I needed help, and Dad was my only option.
When I arrived, Dad wrapped me in his arms. His gray eyes looked tired but full of warmth.
“This is your home, sweetheart,” he said softly, cupping my face like I was still a little girl.
