It had been a week since I gave Dominic a chance to prove himself, and I had to admit that things were going surprisingly well. Every morning, I woke up to breakfast in bed. Every evening, he cooked dinner for me himself. He was attentive without being suffocating, caring without being controlling. It was almost too good to be true.
The strangest part was that I was starting to believe his sincerity. The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching, the gentle way he touched my hand when he helped me up, the excited smile that crossed his face whenever we talked about the baby – it all seemed genuine. Maybe he really could be a good father. Maybe he really was trying to change.
But I still felt conflicted. My heart was hard toward him, protected by layers of anger and grief that
