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His Wife, His Mistake
Chapter Six: Raising Liam
POV: Arya
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I had every reason to raise my son with bitterness.
To whisper hatred into his ears while rocking him to sleep. To curse the man whose DNA he shared. To teach him that love is a lie, that fathers are optional, that trust is dangerous.
But I didn't.
Because Liam deserved a mother who gave him more than pain.
Even if I had to choke back the bitterness every single day.
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He was born on a rainy Tuesday.
It was late — almost midnight — and the storm outside was louder than my screams. No family in the waiting room. No husband pacing the halls.
Just me, alone in that hospital bed, squeezing the rails with everything I had left.
When he arrived, he didn't cry at first.
He blinked up at the world, silent, curious.
Like he already knew it would be a hard place to grow up in — and had made peace with it.
He was the quietest baby I'd ever seen.
And somehow, the moment I held him, the world didn't seem so loud anymore.
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I named him Liam.
Simple. Strong. Gentle.
It was the only name I'd picked without Damon.
The first decision I made as a mother, all on my own.
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Our first year together was filled with struggles — but also, so much beauty.
I was working part-time at the town's library and painting when I could. Money was tight. There were nights when I had to choose between buying formula or paying the electricity bill.
There were moments I cried in the bathroom, whispering "I don't know how to do this."
But then I'd walk out and see him — those wide eyes, that little yawn, the way he reached for me like I was his whole world.
And suddenly, I knew.
I didn't have to be perfect.
I just had to love him enough.
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I loved him so much, it hurt sometimes.
When he got sick and wouldn't stop coughing.
When he took his first steps and fell flat on his face.
When he clung to my leg on his first day at preschool, scared I'd leave.
I was there for every tear. Every milestone. Every scraped knee and whispered prayer.
I was everything he had.
And though I hated Damon for what he did — for what he didn't do — I swore I would never poison Liam with that hate.
Because no child deserves to carry their mother's pain.
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Still, I couldn't deny it.
Sometimes when I looked at Liam — the shape of his nose, the way he furrowed his brow when he was thinking — I saw Damon.
And it hurt.
It hurt that Damon had no idea how incredible his son was.
That he'd missed Liam's first laugh, his first word, his first "I love you."
That he had chosen someone else when I was carrying the one thing that could've changed everything.
But I never let Liam see that.
I smiled for him even when I was breaking.
Because that's what mothers do.
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He grew fast.
By three, he was asking questions that made my heart stop.
"Mama, how come I don't have a daddy like Noah does?"
I paused, kneeling in front of him.
"You do have a daddy, sweetheart," I said softly.
"Where is he?"
"He lives far away."
"Did he go on a trip?"
I looked into those innocent eyes — so pure, so trusting — and swallowed the ache in my throat.
"Yes," I whispered. "A very long trip."
That night, I held him a little longer. Tucked him in a little tighter. Told him stories of kings and warriors, of brave little boys who grew up to change the world.
He didn't know it yet.
But he was my little warrior.
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We had our own traditions.
Friday night pancake dinners.
Sunday walks along the shoreline, where we'd collect shells and pretend they were treasure.
Afternoon painting in my studio, where Liam's tiny handprints covered every spare canvas.
He painted the world in colors I hadn't seen since I left Damon.
He brought light back into places I thought would stay dark forever.
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Sometimes, when he fell asleep on the couch, I'd sit beside him with a sketchpad and draw him — peaceful, soft, a miracle I still couldn't believe belonged to me.
And every now and then, when I was feeling brave, I'd draw his father.
From memory.
Strong jaw. Shadowed eyes. Cold expression.
Then I'd tear the page out and throw it away.
Because Damon didn't deserve to live in my art.
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But no matter how much I hated him…
I still loved who he helped create.
Liam was the best parts of me — and the quietest parts of Damon, the ones I once believed were good.
Sometimes I wondered if he would've been a good father, if he'd known. If I had told him.
But wondering doesn't change the past.
And I couldn't risk Liam's heart the way Damon broke mine.
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Still, the world has a cruel sense of humor.
Because one sunny afternoon at the town's art fair, fate brought him back to me.
And everything I'd buried — every feeling, every memory, every scar — came crashing to the surface.
I saw it in Damon's eyes the moment he looked at Liam.
Recognition. Regret. Panic.
He knew.
And suddenly, I was no longer just the woman who left.
I was the mother of the son he never met.
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Now, I watch Liam play in the garden outside the studio. He's laughing, chasing a butterfly, cheeks flushed with joy.
And all I can think is:
He's mine.
I raised him with love.
With truth.
With strength Damon never gave me.
And no matter what happens next — no matter what Damon wants — I'll never regret walking away.
Because Liam wasn't my mistake.
He was my miracle.