“She’s a witch!” the woman screeched, her voice slicing through the sterile air of the hospital room. All eyes were on her, a tempest of rage in high heels and designer fabric.

Ethan’s fiancée, a woman I barely knew, looked like she’d unraveled in the last thirty minutes. Her eyes were wild, hair disheveled, and her manicured finger shook as she pointed at my innocent daughter, who slept soundly, oblivious to the chaos unfurling around her.

Ethan stepped protectively in front of the crib. “Madeline, stop!” His voice was firm, though I could see the tremor in his stance, the uncertainty that had always lurked beneath his confident exterior.

Madeline’s eyes darted between Ethan and me, calculating, her mind churning over possibilities like a gambler trying to bluff her way through a losing hand. “She can’t be yours, Ethan. She can’t!” She repeated, her voice breaking into a desperate sob.

I finally found my voice, a calm cutting through the pandemonium. “Madeline, there’s no conspiracy here. No trick. This is my child, and she’s very much Ethan’s too.”

Madeline seemed not to hear me, lost in her hysteria. Her face crumpled, and she turned to Ethan, pleading. “She’s lying to you, Ethan. I’m the one who’s supposed to have your children. Not her!”

The nurses exchanged glances, unsure whether to intervene. My mother, though silent, stepped closer to me, a protective barrier in this emotional storm.

Ethan took a deep breath, his gaze meeting mine. For a moment, it was like old times—when we could communicate volumes with just a look. But those days were gone.

“Madeline,” Ethan said, his voice softening but remaining resolute, “I need to sort this out with Emily. Please, just give us some space.”

A flicker of defeat passed over Madeline’s features. She hesitated, eyes narrowing at me before she stormed out of the room, heels clacking against the tiles with each indignant step.

The silence that followed was thick, awkward, saturated with the echoes of unspoken words and unresolved histories. Ethan turned back to me, his expression a mix of guilt and longing. “Emily, I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know you kept the baby.”

I sighed, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over me. “And I didn’t tell you because you made it clear you didn’t want this.”

He nodded slowly, accepting the truth of it. “I was wrong,” he admitted. “So wrong.”

The moment stretched between us, a fragile truce. A part of me wanted to ask why he hadn’t called, why he’d let another woman dictate his actions. But another, deeper part of me didn’t care. I had a new priority now—a tiny life that demanded all my attention, all my love.

“We need to figure this out,” he said, eyes shifting to our daughter. “For her sake.”

I nodded, the fight leaving me. “Yes, we do.”

As Ethan settled into a chair beside the hospital bed, the nurses resumed their quiet activity. Outside, the sun began to set, casting golden light through the window, illuminating the small, delicate features of our daughter—the bridge between what was and what could be.