Two Sons, A Mother's Divided Heart

Josephine Jackson POV:

The Garner mansion was just as I remembered it: a cold, opulent mausoleum suffocating under the weight of its own history. Arthur led me through silent, cavernous hallways to Iggy's bedroom suite. The air outside his door was thick with the scent of antiseptic and hushed panic. A small crowd of expensive-looking doctors stood clustered together, murmuring in low tones.

From inside the room, I could hear a woman's voice, syrupy sweet and laced with frustration. "Iggy, darling, just one more sip for Mommy. Please?"

Then, Hampton's voice, sharp and impatient. "Christabel, this is getting us nowhere. If he won't take it willingly, we'll force it down."

"Hampton, you're scaring him!" the woman's voice replied, a practiced pout in her tone.

Arthur cleared his throat and pushed the door open. "Sir. Mrs. Byrd is here."

The room fell silent. Hampton stood by the large four-poster bed, his shoulders tense. And sitting on the edge of the bed, dabbing Iggy's forehead with a cloth, was Christabel Fitzpatrick. She turned, and her perfectly made-up face hardened into a mask of pure contempt.

"Well, well," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Look what the cat dragged in. I thought it would take an act of God to get you here."

Hampton shot her a warning look. "Christabel, perhaps you should get some rest. You've been up all night."

"I'm perfectly fine, darling," she cooed, placing a proprietary hand on his arm. "Besides, our wedding is just a few months away. I need to get used to taking care of our son." She emphasized the word 'our', a deliberate dagger aimed straight at me.

"Go," Hampton said. His voice was soft, but it held an unmistakable command, the tone of a man who was not used to being disobeyed.

Christabel's smile tightened. She stood up, smoothing down her silk robe. As she passed me, her eyes, cold and sharp as shards of glass, raked over me. It was a look that promised retribution.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving just the three of us in the cavernous room. Hampton, me, and the small, feverish boy buried under a mountain of expensive duvets.

"Get him to take his medicine," Hampton ordered, his voice flat.

I approached the bed. Iggy was pale, his cheeks flushed with fever. He cracked open an eye, saw it was me, and immediately burrowed deeper under the covers, turning his back to me.

"Hampton, this isn't going to work," I whispered.

"You managed to charm my son's replacement easily enough," he said, his voice laced with a strange bitterness. "This one is your own blood. Figure it out."

The words stung, but he was right. I had a duty. A biological pull I couldn't deny, no matter how much pain it was attached to. I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking under my weight.

I felt a pang of memory, so sharp it stole my breath. In the brief weeks after Iggy was born, before they cast me out, I was kept in a secluded wing of this house. They told me I wasn't to see the baby, that it was for the best. But at night, I would sneak into the nursery. He never cried for me. He never even knew my name. But I would stand over his crib for hours, watching him sleep.

I picked up the bowl of medicine. The spoon felt alien in my hand. "Iggy," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "You need to drink this. It will make you feel better."

He didn't move.

"Please, Iggy."

Slowly, he turned over. He looked at me, his eyes glassy with fever and resentment. "You feed me," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

I brought the spoon to his lips. He took a small sip and immediately recoiled. "It's hot! Blow on it."

I blew on the spoonful of dark liquid until it was cool. He took another sip. "It's bitter," he whined. "I want honey."

It took nearly half an hour of this frustrating dance-blowing, adding honey, coaxing-before the medicine was finally gone. I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. Cale was never like this. When Cale was sick, he was quiet and sweet, thanking me after every spoonful.

I placed the empty bowl on the nightstand, my shoulders slumping with relief. I could go home now. I could go back to Cale.

"Sing to me," Iggy demanded, his voice weak but imperious.

"What?"

"Sing me the song. The one you used to sing to put me to sleep."

My blood ran cold. "I... I don't know any songs."

"Yes, you do," he insisted, his voice growing stronger with agitation. "The one about the moon and the water. You sang it to me."

Hampton, who had been watching silently from the corner, straightened up, his gaze sharp and questioning. He was looking at me, really looking at me, as if for the first time.

My heart hammered against my ribs. He couldn't know. No one could know about my secret, nighttime visits to the nursery. I had sung to my son in the dark, my voice a broken whisper, a lullaby about a little boat crossing a wide ocean to find its way home. A lullaby for a journey we would never take together.

And he remembered. This angry, spoiled boy, he remembered my voice in the dark.

"You must be thinking of someone else," I lied, my voice trembling. "It wasn't me."

"Liar!" he shrieked, his face contorting with a sudden, violent rage. He sat bolt upright, his small hands balled into fists. "It was you! It was always you!"

He shoved me, hard. The force was unexpected. I lost my balance, tumbling backward off the bed. I threw my hand out to catch myself, but it landed directly on the ceramic medicine bowl I had just set down.

It shattered under my weight.

A searing, white-hot pain shot up my arm. I looked down. A large shard of porcelain was embedded in the palm of my hand. Blood, dark and shockingly red, welled up around it, dripping onto the pristine white rug.