I stayed silent, playing the part of a blind woman flawlessly. Words stuck in my throat like a knot I couldn't untangle.
The next morning, Tristan seemed unusually attentive. Perhaps guilt tugged at him, or maybe he sensed the growing distance between us. As I sipped my tea at the breakfast table, he suddenly spoke, his tone lighter than usual.
"Zara, let's go to the hospital today for your prenatal check-up. I'll take you myself." His eyes searched mine with uncharacteristic intensity.
My hand instinctively rested on my flat stomach. The weight of the truth I hadn't shared pressed heavily on me. This was my chance to tell him that the baby was gone, that I had chosen to end it.
But under his expectant gaze, I hesitated. "Okay," I said softly, my voice barely audible.
When we arrived at the hospital, the air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and blooming jasmine from nearby planters. Tristan helped me out of the car and led me to a bench just inside the entrance. His touch, once warm and reassuring, felt mechanical now—a practiced gesture devoid of real connection.
"Wait here. I'll go make the arrangements," he said, crouching down to meet my gaze. He smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling tight as if trying to reassure himself more than me.
Through the hospital's glass doors, I saw her—Anya. She was waving at Tristan with both hands, her face lit up like a child's on Christmas morning.
Tristan's composure cracked for a split second, but he quickly recovered, turning back to me briefly. "Stay put," he murmured. Then, without hesitation, he sprinted to her.
From my seat, I watched them through the glass. Tristan enveloped her in a tight embrace, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in his world. Anya clung to him, sobbing dramatically, her voice just audible through the door.
"Tristan, I'm pregnant—with our child. Our child!" Her words rang out like a gunshot in the quiet hospital corridor, shattering the fragile bubble of denial I had built around myself.
Tristan froze, his body stiffening as he pulled back to look at her. His expression was a chaotic mix of shock and disbelief, but his hands instinctively moved to her shoulders, steadying her.
"Anya…" His voice cracked, betraying his usual calm.
Tears streaked down her flushed cheeks, but her sobs quickly turned into triumphant laughter as she pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of them together. Seconds later, I saw her tap furiously and then a notification lit up my own screen.
Anya had posted the photo, captioned simply: [Baby on board!]
Tristan frowned, his jaw tightening. "Are you out of your mind?" he hissed, lowering his voice. "The employees will see this!"
Anya's lower lip trembled and her eyes glistened with fresh tears. "I just wanted to show how much I love you. Don't you want to stop sneaking around forever? Don't you want a family with me?"
His defenses crumbled immediately. Tristan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. After a long pause, he took out his phone and typed something. Moments later, his own post went live: [Anya's child is mine. I'll give everyone an explanation soon.]
It was his first social media post in six years.
My stomach twisted as I scrolled through the comments that flooded in almost instantly:
[Mr. Anders has cared for a blind woman for six years. He's already done enough.]
[Tristan and Anya make such a perfect couple! Now they can finally have a real family.]
[Lucky Anya! Tristan is the dream husband!]
Anya beamed as she read the comments aloud to Tristan, her voice bubbling with excitement. Then, standing on tiptoes, she kissed his cheek, leaving a faint pink lipstick mark. Tristan smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.
Suddenly, he glanced at his watch. "Wait here. I need to finish something inside."
By the time he returned to me, his expression was carefully neutral. "Zara, I ran into a friend earlier. Sorry for the delay. Let's get you checked in now."
His words flowed smoothly, but I could see the strain in his posture, the tightness in his jaw. He helped me into the examination room but didn't linger, excusing himself almost immediately.
The doctor who entered froze as soon as she saw me. Her eyes widened, her professional smile faltering. "Mrs. Anders?" she began, her voice hesitant.
I couldn't meet her gaze. Just a few days ago, she'd helped me with the abortion. Now, here I was, returning for a prenatal checkup. Finally, I stood, shaking my head. "I'm sorry. There's been a mistake."
I left the room before she could respond, my footsteps unsteady. As I passed the waiting area, I caught sight of them again—Tristan and Anya. He held her bag over one shoulder while his other hand rested protectively on her lower back. They were laughing together, their heads close as if sharing a private joke.
Something inside me snapped. I hailed a taxi outside the hospital, the driver's puzzled gaze lingering on my tear-streaked face.
Back at the house, I moved through the rooms mechanically, packing my belongings into a single suitcase. I avoided looking at the bed, the couch, the dining table—all the places where our life together had unfolded.
By the time I arrived at the airport, the sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow over the bustling terminal. There was no dramatic goodbye. No lingering words or farewells. Just the sound of my suitcase wheels rolling across the polished floor. I was ready to leave everything behind.
However, my phone buzzed with a notification just as I was about to board my flight. It was a message from my ophthalmologist: [No idea what's gotten into your husband. He beat up the obstetrician and has been taken away by the police!]
