Ethan turned back to me, his eyes filled with tears. “Is she… is she really mine?”

I nodded once. “The DNA test is already done. You demanded it during the divorce—remember?”

He flinched. “I never even looked at the results.”

I took a slow breath. “She is your daughter, Ethan. But that doesn’t mean you can step back into my life as if none of this happened.”

“That’s not what I want,” he said quickly. “I want to be responsible.”

“For the baby?”

“For both of you.”

I studied him closely. He wasn’t the confident man I once married. He looked shattered—frightened and ashamed.

“You’re supposed to be getting married in two days,” I said.

“Not anymore,” he replied firmly. “I canceled it.”

That shocked me more than anything else.

Over the next few days, Ethan showed up quietly and respectfully. He learned how to hold his daughter, how to change diapers, how to sit beside me without demanding forgiveness.

But forgiveness wasn’t the hardest part.