He Cries At My Empty Grave
Language: en
My best friend had just given birth, and I was cradling the tiny, swaddled bundle, lost in that soft, new-baby scent. It was a rare moment of peace—until Mark stepped toward us, his voice cutting through the quiet like a serrated blade. He didn't say he was the godfather. He said he was the father. The world tilted. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs, certain I’d misheard him through the haze of hospital-grade disinfectant and exhaustion. But Mark just let out a sharp, cynical breath and repeated it. The boy was his. Then he twisted the knife. He told me that on the very night my…