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There was a permanent feeling of immanent doom. It’d been there ever since I took my little boy to be tested at the clinic. That same clinic where my husband - my dear Charles - and I had our fertility treatments. They worked. Jarod was born.
On the night before, I checked him twice. I didn’t do it that night.
On that faithful hour, I would never know that my eldest-born was being taken away from the comfort and safety of our home.
I trusted them. Maybe I shouldn’t be such a trusty person. Trusting the wrong persons makes you a fool.