I could have told him about the night Preston took my phone because I had asked why his shirt smelled like Savannah’s perfume.
I could have told him about the emails from his lawyer, drafted before I even knew he wanted a divorce.
I could have told him about the prenuptial agreement his family attorney rushed me through two days before the wedding, when I was young enough to believe love made contracts harmless.
I could have told him about the doctor Preston tried to switch me to last month.
The one outside my insurance.
The one Savannah recommended.
The one whose office called twice asking whether I wanted to discuss “private adoption planning.”
But I did not say all of it.
Not yet.
I had learned that information was strongest when released in the right order.
So I said, “He wants the baby.”
My uncle went still.
“He wants custody?”
“No. Not custody.”
The room seemed colder.
“He wants the baby born under his control. His doctors. His attorneys. His house. His name. His story.”
My uncle’s jaw tightened.
“And Savannah?”
“She wants me gone before the baby arrives.”
He did not ask if I meant gone from the marriage.
