The morning light is thin through the hotel curtains. I have not slept. The sonogram is in my wallet, folded beside the business card Lena gave me months ago. I take it out now, smooth the creases, look at the blurred shape of my daughter. She is still there. Still mine. I call Lena at seven. She answers on the first ring, her voice sharp, awake. I tell her I need the divorce papers filed today. I tell her Nathaniel knows about the baby. I tell her about the package, the photograph, the note. Lena is quiet for a moment. Then she says she will have the papers ready by noon. She asks if I am sure. I tell her I have never been more sure of anything. Marcus drives me to Lena's office. The city is waking up, streets filling with cars, people rushing to work, lives moving forward while mine has been standing still for months. I sit in the passenger seat with my hand on my stomach, the sonogram in my pocket, the locket around my neck. I think about the first time Nathaniel held me. Not t
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