The ambulance doors slammed shut, cutting off the sight of Ryan’s panic-stricken face. It wasn’t guilt on his face; it was pure terror. Not terror for me, and not even terror for the child I carried. He was terrified of exposure. He was a rising partner at his firm, a man who built his entire reputation on a veneer of flawless corporate respectability, and the thought of a police investigation, a public scandal, or a messy court battle made him sweat through his tailored shirt.

I walked back down the hallway. Maya was waiting in the kitchen, pouring fresh coffee into a mug, her eyes full of unspoken questions.

"Was that who I think it was?" Maya asked softly.

"Yes," I replied, leaning against the counter and taking a deep breath of the warm, peaceful air inside my home. "Ryan’s mother."

"Did she try to pull a sob story?"

"She wanted the heirlooms from their family vault." I shrugged lightly. "I gave her the key. Let her have her past. We have a future to build."

Maya smiled, a wide, genuine grin that melted the last remnants of shadow from the room. She handed me the mug of coffee, then pointed toward the hallway where little Chloe was busy building a towering castle out of colorful plastic blocks.

"Come on, Auntie Em!" Chloe yelled out, clapping her hands. "Look at my castle! It's super high!"

I walked over to the living room, sat down on the plush rug next to my daughter, and helped her place the final, stabilizing block at the very top of the tower.