He accused me of choosing Ella over him.
But I was not choosing Ella over my son.
I was choosing the truth over denial.
I gave Ella’s mother the money and promised to cover whatever help Ella needed afterward. Jeremiah looked at me like I had betrayed him, then walked away into the dark.
Weeks later, he left for university barely speaking to me.
The house became quiet.
I sat at the kitchen table and wrote Ella an apology letter, knowing it could never undo the damage. Then I put away the old photo of her—the one Jeremiah had kept for years—and closed the drawer.
For the first time, I stopped protecting the version of my son I wanted to believe in.
And I started facing the one standing in front of me.
