Thinking back to my postpartum recovery, David had sent me to a maternity center and hired a nanny—then completely vanished. He claimed he was too busy with work and that the company couldn’t function without him.
He would drop by every few days, stay for less than half an hour and then rush off again. The only person who visited me frequently was my childhood friend, Elijah.
I smiled faintly back then, “There are plenty of people lining up to be Parry’s dad and they have no problem with him taking my surname.”
I was determined to get a divorce. That same day, I called Elijah and asked him to come over when he had time to go with me and register Parry’s birth.
Just as I hung up the phone, I heard David’s voice shouting outside my parents’ villa.
“Anne, I was wrong! I shouldn’t have made you angry!”
I followed the sound and looked outside. Downstairs I saw the entrance was covered in red roses. David, dressed in a white suit, was kneeling on one knee, pleading for me to go back with him.
“If you insist on Parry taking your surname, I won’t argue anymore. I’ll listen to everything you say, okay? You’re the heart of our family.”