The lake was supposed to be our safe place.
But that night, it felt like the water was listening, carrying our voices to every ear in Maplewood.
Rebecca sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her chin resting on them as though she could fold herself small enough to disappear. The moonlight caught in her auburn hair, but there was no laughter in her eyes. Just fear.
"We could leave," she whispered, her voice barely louder than the frogs croaking along the shore.
"Leave?" I repeated. My stomach twisted at the thought. "And go where?"
"Anywhere," she said quickly, desperation creeping into her tone. "Chicago, maybe. People say it's easier there. No one knows us. We could start over."
Her words stung. Chicago was a different world, a place of money and speed and strangers. It was a place where people like us got swallowed up. I had no savings. No work skills beyond farm chores. Leaving Maplewood felt like stepping into a storm with no shelter.
"Rebecca," I said carefully, "we don't have the means to run away. Chicago isn't—"
She cut me off, her eyes flashing. "Then what, Daniel? What do you want me to do? Sit here and wait for the whole town to brand me a sinner? Watch my mother collapse under the shame?"
Her voice cracked, and tears spilled down her cheeks. My heart ached at the sight. I reached out, taking her hand, but she pulled away, hugging herself tighter.
I wanted to tell her it would be okay. But I didn't believe it myself.
The silence stretched between us until she finally spoke again, softer this time. "There has to be another way."
The words echoed in my mind, bouncing against the fear already lodged there. Another way.
I thought of the wealthy families in town, the ones who never seemed touched by hardship. The Wilsons with their sprawling house on Elm Street. The Carpenters, who sent their kids to private schools in Chicago. Families who lived in comfort while Rebecca's mother scrubbed their floors.
And I thought of the whispers I'd overheard once—two women in Jenkins' store, speaking in hushed tones about how some childless couples would "pay anything" for a baby.
The thought burned like fire in my chest. Sinful. Terrible. Unthinkable. Yet it lodged there, refusing to leave.
Rebecca's sobs broke the night. "I don't know what to do."
I finally spoke, my voice low, almost ashamed of itself. "What if… someone else raised the baby?"
Her head snapped up, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
I swallowed hard, hating myself even as the words came out. "I mean… what if we gave the baby to a family that could provide what we can't? A wealthy family. They could give the child a life we never could. No judgment. No shame."
Rebecca stared at me, horrified. "Daniel… you mean—sell the baby?"
The word cut sharper than a knife. Sell. It wasn't what I wanted to say. I wanted to dress it up as sacrifice, as protection, as mercy. But stripped bare, that's exactly what it was.
I looked away, ashamed. "I don't know. Maybe. I just—Rebecca, I don't see another way."
The night air felt heavier than before, pressing against us. She shook her head, tears falling faster. "This isn't right. This can't be right."
But she didn't walk away. She didn't scream. She didn't tell me no. And in her silence, I heard something worse than rejection: I heard consideration.
The lake lapped gently against the pier, as though mocking us. We were two children sitting by the water, whispering about sin like it was a solution.
And in that moment, the shadows in Maplewood grew darker.