Footsteps.
Dishes.
Voices in another room.
I was about to hang up when I heard his mother, Sarah.
“Well?” she asked quietly. “Did you get her to sign it yet?”
My hand froze over the screen.
Sign what?
Oliver laughed.
“Almost. She keeps hesitating about the paperwork. But after the wedding, she’ll do it. Once everything is official, she’ll trust me.”
My entire body went still.
Then Sarah said something I couldn’t quite hear.
Oliver answered more clearly.
“With three kids, stability means everything to her. She’s exhausted. She wants someone helping carry the load. If I tell her something is better for the children, she’ll probably agree.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
For three years, Oliver had told me he loved my children.
I had believed him.
I was forty-three years old and raising three kids.
My son Harry was eight.
My twin nieces, Selena and Mika, were seven.
They had come to live with me three years earlier after my younger sister died.
Before she passed, I promised her that her daughters would always be safe.
Always cared for.
Always protected.
I had taken that promise seriously.
I built my entire life around it.
I kept my house.
Built savings slowly.
Created trusts for the children.
Updated insurance.
Worked full-time while managing school pickups, appointments, homework, bills, and everything else that came with raising three children.
It wasn’t glamorous.
