Two weeks into my job at a trendy café, I was still sweating every time I touched the register. I’d come from a world of spreadsheets and supply chains, not oat milk and espresso shots. I just wanted to keep my head down, earn a paycheck, and maybe — just maybe — get off my friend Marcus’s couch before my spine snapped in half. But Kylie, my co-worker, didn’t make that easy. “You forgot to restock the oat milk again,” she announced loud enough for the entire café to hear.

I thought grief had already taken everything from me—until the night a wolf appeared at my cabin door, carrying a newborn baby wrapped in a torn blanket between its jaws. Days later, men in suits came knocking with questions and threats I never saw coming. Suddenly, everyone wanted the baby. But one thing was certain—they’d have to go through me first. I’m 36 years old. One year ago, I lost everything that ever mattered. My wife, Sarah, and our unborn son both died during childbirth. The doctors told me it

It was the morning Jennifer went back to work, and somehow, our kitchen had turned into a battlefield. My mom stood by the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp like a judge ready to hand out a sentence. “You’re making a huge mistake,” she said, scrubbing at a spotless countertop for the third time. “The baby needs his mother.” Jennifer didn’t back down. She stood straight, chin high, clutching her coffee cup like a shield.“I’m not abandoning him, Mary-Anne. I’m going back to my career. There’s a difference.” I stepped in