Seven years.
My aunt got eighteen months.
Six months later, I stood in my kitchen at sunrise, holding Noah against my chest.
His scar was small.
Healing.
His heartbeat steady.
Leah sat nearby, smiling.
“Strongest baby I know,” she whispered.
Outside, everything was quiet.
No lies.
No fear.
No one trying to take what belonged to my child.
My phone buzzed—voicemail from my mother in prison.
I deleted it without listening.
Then Noah opened his eyes and looked at me like I was his whole world.
For the first time in my life—
I wasn’t just someone’s daughter.
I was his mother.
And that was enough.
