The word hit hard.
Stupid.
That’s what I was to him now.
After nine years of marriage.
After all the promises about doing that procedure “for us,” because money was tight, because “we’ll figure the rest later.”
I reminded him—
The doctor had said to wait.
That it wasn’t immediate.
That there was still a chance.
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
He had already decided.
“Who is it?” he asked.
I froze.
“The father,” he said. “Tell me who it is.”
I felt sick.
Not because of the pregnancy.
Because of him.
That same night, he packed a bag.
Not everything.
Just enough to make it clear—he already had somewhere else to go.
“I’m staying with Paola,” he said.
Paola.
His coworker.
The one who used to text me for recipes.
The one who told me how lucky I was.
The one who had clearly been waiting for this moment.
The next day, his mother showed up.
