Adrian’s father stared at me, his face a mask of disbelief and frustration. His hand clutched the edge of the conference table, his knuckles white, as if trying to ground himself in the chaos my words had unleashed.
“What do you mean you didn’t get an abortion?” he demanded, his voice low and sharp, the disbelief evident.
I didn’t flinch. I had prepared myself for this moment for years, rehearsed the words I would say if this confrontation ever came. Yet, now that I stood there, my throat felt tight, and my palms were damp with sweat.
“I mean exactly what I said,” I replied, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. “I didn’t get an abortion. I kept the baby. I raised him—alone. And now my son wants to meet his father.”
For a moment, the room was utterly silent. I could hear
