The divorce was already set in stone. The child could keep the surname of his heartless mother—I didn't care anymore.
"Whatever. Call him what you want."
"I only have one condition. Don't list me as the father. My real son's spirit wouldn't be happy."
Greta paused. A flicker of guilt crossed her eyes.
"Bob Swanson, don't worry. I'm only using the fact that Noel shares half your bloodline. He and I never—"
She didn't finish.
A crash echoed from outside the door.
"You animal! Who gave you permission to be here?!"
Noel Swanson lay crumpled on the floor, eyes red-rimmed.
"I just wanted to see the baby."
Grandma Evelyn's cane struck him again and again.
"Get out!"
In that instant, Greta became a startled bird. She forgot she'd just given birth—forgot her own body—and shoved the baby into my arms before bolting out the door.
When she moved, I saw them: hundreds of needle marks dotting both her arms, each one the width of a child's finger. Scattered among them were self-inflicted wounds, now splitting open under the pressure.
Yet she walked away as if I were invisible.