The door opened.
She came in without knocking, her shoes clicking sharply against the tile floor. There were no flowers in her hands, no smile on her face, no “Congratulations.” Her eyes flicked toward the baby, then straight back to me — and the look she gave me was not joy. It was triumph.
“I knew it,” she said loudly, her voice slicing through the quiet room.
“This baby isn’t my son’s.”
The words hit me like cold water. “What nonsense,” I said, my voice trembling but calm.
“Look at her — she even has her father’s nose.”
She gave a short, harsh laugh.
“A nose? Anyone could have the same nose. You’re a liar, a homewrecker. You ruined my son’s life and now you expect me to accept this… this child as family?”
I felt my chest tighten, but I kept my arms wrapped around my daughter.
“You don’t have to like me,” I said quietly, “but this is your granddaughter.”
That only seemed to fuel her anger. She stepped closer to the bed, her voice rising. “Granddaughter? Don’t make me laugh. Look at yourself — greasy hair, circles under your eyes. You can’t even keep yourself presentable, and you expect me to believe you can be a good mother? And her”—she pointed at my newborn—“she’s a mistake. She’ll grow up just like you: selfish and deceitful.”
