Zane stayed up through the nights by her bedside until his eyes were bloodshot. But he still held my hand, still whispered comfort:
"Honey, I'll take care of Mom. You need to rest—your health comes first."
In the midnight quiet of that hospital room, he held me close, his voice barely a murmur:
"Madeline, when you're old, I'll keep watch by your bed just like this. If you go first, I won't want to live either."
"You suffered so much growing up. God sent me to love you."
The divorce went nowhere.
For my parents. For that pathetic scrap of hope I still carried—that love could be real.
I endured his betrayals. Again and again.
Until the thirtieth time.
When his mistress showed up at my door and ground her heel into my face, I finally broke.
Before I could even bring up divorce, my son Asher Morton wrapped himself around my leg.
He looked up at me with teary eyes:
"Mom, please don't divorce Dad."
"I don't want to be some kid without a mom."
Zane was right about one thing.
Even if he let me go, I still couldn't leave.
My parents depended on the Morton family.
And my son needed his mother.
But he miscalculated.
That day, outside my mom's hospital room, I heard them plotting how to keep the lies going.