So I asked you a question that night, indirectly. I asked if you’d choose me — just me, before you knew about any baby.
You chose the suitcase.
You answered the only question that mattered.
I’m keeping our child, Alex. I found out days later it’s more than one. The doctors are stunned; the numbers that looked so poor turned out to be one snapshot of a body that was, it turns out, capable of a great deal. ‘Poor numbers’ was never ‘impossible.’ You heard ‘impossible’ because it let you do what your mother wanted.
I’m going to raise them alone, and I’m going to build something, and I’m going to be fine, because I have discovered in the last week that I am far stronger than the woman you decided was a failed experiment.
I’m leaving this letter with your lawyers because someday you may come looking for the truth, and when you do, I want it in writing, dated,
