(Rebecca's POV)
The bench presses cold against my forearms. I'm back in the workshop. My throat is raw, and I don't know when that happened.
My hand moves to my stomach. Eight weeks. The raspberry.
The new life doesn't make the old one hurt less. It makes it hurt differently.
Not grievance now. Not the anger I carried through the divorce or the ledger I presented to Sean — the itemized list of everything I did and everything he didn't see.
That anger was real. It was earned. It served its purpose.
But this — this thing underneath it —
My collarbones ache. A hollow, physical weight, like my arms remember the shape of a baby they haven't held in years. My fingers curl against the bench. Restless. Empty.
I want those three years back. The baby I held in the dark. The version of mother
