I fake-married the town barista next door to keep a baby everyone swears isn’t hers.
I roll back into Maple Falls with headlines clinging to my name and walls so thin I hear lullabies.
June Lane has flour on her cheek, espresso on her apron, and Rosie on her hip, standing between me and the quiet life I came home for.
When the social worker’s glance pauses on June’s bare ring finger, my mouth says, “She has a husband. Me.”
One courthouse signature later, her mug waits beside mine, a pink pacifier guards my keys, and midnight feedings replace boardroom calls.
We rehearse our love story, then forget the script—hand-holding on Main Street, charity dinners, grocery carts and burnt pancakes.
Somewhere between building Rosie a swing and her falling asleep on my chest, this pretend life starts feeling like home.
Then Rosie’s uncle waves my worst headlines at the judge.
If I can’t prove this fake marriage is the truest thing I’ve ever done, I lose them both.
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Sophie Toovey 