When I walked back from Elm Street, the sky had already begun to darken. Maplewood's streets glowed with lanterns, children's laughter echoing faintly as they were called indoors for supper. To them, it was an ordinary night. To me, it felt like the whole world had shifted.
Rebecca was waiting for me.
I knew the moment I stepped into her mother's small kitchen that she could see it in my eyes.
She rose from her chair, her hands gripping the wooden table so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Where were you?" she asked. Her voice wasn't sharp, but it trembled with something worse—fear.
I opened my mouth, but the words tangled. How could I explain that I had crossed a threshold no prayer could erase?
"Daniel," she pressed, her voice breaking. "Tell me."
I drew in a breath, the air heavy like ash in my lungs. "I went to the Wilsons."
Her lips parted. She staggered back as though I had struck her. "No… no, tell me you didn't."
"I only spoke with Mr. Wilson," I rushed on, desperate to soften the truth. "I didn't… I didn't promise anything. Not yet. But, Rebecca—he listened. He's willing. He said—"
"Stop!" she cried, pressing her hands over her ears. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling faster than she could wipe them away. "Daniel, how could you? You talked to him? You brought our child into their hands without even asking me?"
Her words pierced me, sharper than any blade. "I did it for us," I said hoarsely. "For you. For the baby. I thought—"
"You thought?" she snapped, her voice breaking with grief. "You thought you could decide our child's fate like it was a bushel of apples at market? Do you hear yourself?"
Her sobs filled the room, loud and raw. She sank into the chair again, covering her face. I stood there useless, my heart tearing apart. Every instinct told me to hold her, to beg her forgiveness. But I couldn't move. Shame glued my feet to the floor.
Finally, through her tears, she whispered, "Daniel… we were supposed to fight together. Not sell our souls apart."
Her words shattered me. Because in her eyes, I saw it—something breaking, something fragile slipping from her grasp. Trust.
And once broken, trust rarely mends.
The room grew unbearably quiet except for her sobbing. And for the first time, I realized: the betrayal hadn't just begun with Mr. Wilson. It had begun here, in this kitchen, in the look on Rebecca's tear-streaked face.
I had betrayed her. And I wasn't sure I'd ever get her back.