For five years, I lived in hiding, raising my son alone. Aaron was a bright child, full of laughter and life, with eyes that reminded me of Alpha Damon every time I looked at him. He was my world, my reason for getting up every day, and he made the ache of the past a little easier to bear.
But some nights, I would lie awake, haunted by memories of his father. I had tried to let go of the past, but the pain lingered, a dull ache in the background of my quiet life.
One day, as I was preparing dinner, Aaron tugged on my sleeve, his young face scrunched up with curiosity.
“Mommy,” he said in that innocent tone, “where is my daddy? Why isn’t he with us?”
My heart skipped a beat. I had known this question would come eventually, but I hadn’t prepared for it. I knelt down, forcing a gentle smile, even as my heart ached with the weight of what I was about to say.
“Your daddy… he’s not with us anymore,” I whispered, hoping that would be enough to satisfy him.