The day I finally crossed the line, it didn't feel like stepping into sin.
It felt like survival.
I told myself that lie over and over as I walked to the Wilson estate under the cover of night. My boots sank into the damp soil, the autumn air heavy with the smell of burning leaves. Each step echoed with guilt, but I pressed forward. Because I was tired—tired of watching Rebecca cry herself to sleep, tired of the fear that tomorrow would strip us of what little we had left.
When I reached the gates, I hesitated. The iron bars loomed high, as though daring me to turn back. But the glow of lanterns spilling from the house drew me in like a moth to flame.
I knocked.
The sound was sharp in the quiet night, and immediately I wanted to run. But the door opened, and Henry Wilson stood there in his robe, brows raised.
"Daniel Cole," he said slowly, his voice thick with surprise. "To what do I owe this late visit?"
My throat tightened. Words tangled in my mouth. But desperation shoved them out.
"I… I need to speak with you. In private."
---
Inside, the Wilson home was everything ours was not—warm, polished, filled with things that spoke of wealth and security. His wife, Margaret, appeared briefly at the top of the stairs, curiosity flashing in her eyes, before Henry waved her away.
We sat in the parlor. I could feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and calculating.
"Well?" he asked. "What matter presses so urgently?"
I swallowed hard, my palms sweating. Say it, I told myself. Say it before you lose your nerve.
"It's about Rebecca," I began. His eyes flickered with interest. "She's… expecting a child."
Henry leaned back slowly, steepling his fingers. "Go on."
I forced myself to meet his gaze. "We can't… provide. Not the way a child deserves. And I thought… perhaps… there might be someone—someone who would want—"
My voice faltered. I couldn't bring myself to say the word.
But Henry understood. He always understood.
A slow smile tugged at his lips. "You mean adoption."
The word sounded cleaner in his mouth than it did in mine. Like he'd already stripped it of its sin.
"Yes," I whispered. "Adoption."
He studied me for a long moment, the silence heavy with meaning. Then he leaned forward. "I'll be frank, Daniel. Margaret and I have longed for a child for years. Doctors tell us it's impossible. We've prayed, we've waited… but nothing. Perhaps this is Providence."
Providence. The word stung like fire. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that handing my child to this man was somehow God's will.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
This wasn't Providence. This was a bargain.
And I had just made it.
---
When I left the Wilson home that night, Henry's words still echoed in my ears: "No one ever has to know. Your burden can become our blessing."
The moon hung low, its light cold against my skin. I felt no relief. Only the weight of chains I had willingly clasped around my own soul.