There it was.
The old expectation.
For years, he had relied on me to soften things, explain away his absences, smooth over his impatience, and carry the emotional weight of both of us.
But love was not supposed to erase a person.
And motherhood, I realized as I looked at my daughter sleeping beneath her pink hospital blanket, had drawn a line in me even heartbreak could not cross.
“I want him out,” I said.
My voice was rough from labor, but steady.
Mark flinched.
“Anna—”
“Now.”
Two military police officers were already waiting in the hall.
Mark looked at them, then at the general, then at Elise. His confidence vanished, replaced by raw fear.
“You can’t do this.”
General Hayes did not blink.
“She can.”
At the threshold, Mark turned back. His gaze dropped to the bassinet.
For the first time since entering, he looked at our daughter.
Not with tenderness.
With panic.
“Is she mine?” he asked.
The question hit harder than any insult.
I rested my hand on the edge of my daughter’s bassinet.
“She is a child,” I said. “Not evidence.”
The officers escorted him out.
Only then did my body begin to shake.
Not from fear.
From release.
