The gun’s nose touches my forehead, and I push against it, wishing I had more time with my baby, dreaming about an alternative reality where I never walked away from her that day in the park but instead, held her, kissed her, told her I was there. Swore my devotion to her. With or without our son. Gave her my heart. My time. My everything. Lived for her. Watched her become a doctor or not. It wouldn’t matter. Just watched her become something that made her happy. Then, when she was ready, we would have another boy. I would be so proud to be his dad because he’d be a hell of a lot smarter than
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