She said Jonah needed stability, someone to visit him, write letters, and show the court he still had family. A wife, she called it—something that would give him roots.

I knew it sounded wrong, but desperation has a way of quieting your doubts. So I agreed, telling myself it was temporary, just a deal to survive.

For three years, I kept my part. I visited, wrote letters, and stayed distant, convincing myself it meant nothing beyond the arrangement we had made.

Then Jonah was released, and everything changed. He came to my apartment, calm and unreadable, carrying a small black box.

He placed it on my kitchen table and opened it without a word. That was the moment I realized his mother hadn’t chosen me by accident—and that I had never been invisible at all.