The screen read Hubby.
I pressed answer and didn't rush to speak.
On the other end came a clatter of cheering and clinking glasses.
Eric's voice carried a thread of impatience.
"Mila, how long are you going to keep this up?"
"You don't reply to my texts, you don't pick up my calls."
"It's Maria's birthday, the whole team's here. How would it look if I didn't show?"
He paused, his tone easing a little, sliding into that same old coaxing register.
"I know not answering your call last night was my fault."
"But you're a grown woman. Stop acting like some sulky little girl."
"Tomorrow I'll cancel the morning meeting and take you to your checkup myself. Happy now?"
I listened to him lay it all out like he had every right to, and it just felt absurd.
Take me to my checkup tomorrow.
He had no idea that the child he still thought needed a checkup was on the other side of one wall, in the resuscitation room, hanging between life and death.
I looked at the sealed doors of that room. My voice came out soft.
"Eric."
"What if something had really happened to me last night?"
The line went quiet for a beat.
The noise behind him seemed to recede a little. He must have stepped out of the room.
"What are you talking about?"
The reproach in his voice was unmistakable now.
"You're pregnant. Can you stop scaring me with things like that?"
"You missed one call. Do you have to curse yourself like this?"
"The baby's not due for another two months. We've got time to get everything ready."
"You being this sensitive and paranoid right now, honestly, it's exhausting."
A sudden tiredness washed over me.
I didn't even have the strength left to argue.
Every gap, every absence, he folded it all into my pregnancy nerves.
He used that self-assured reason of his to wall off my cry for help completely.
"Fine."
I answered calmly.
"I won't make a fuss anymore."
Eric seemed to breathe out in relief.
"That's more like it. Get some good rest at home."
"I'll bring chestnut cake back later."
The call ended.
I opened his contact and went into the settings.
I changed his label from Hubby to Eric Joyce.
Then I opened the hospital app, found the delivery ward's emergency contact page, and deleted his name from it completely.
My mother watched what I was doing, words caught on her lips.
"Mila, you're really not going to tell him?"
"He is the baby's father, after all."
I looked at the post Maria had just put up online.
She'd uploaded a photo of herself holding a cake, half of Eric's profile showing in the background.
The caption read: "Thank you, Eric. Wish granted."
I closed the app, opened my contacts, and dialed a number.
"Lawyer Chavez, it's me."
"I need you to draft a divorce agreement for me."
"As fast as you can."
"You're pregnant and you came to the hospital without telling me?"
Eric's voice rang out in the corridor of the clinic lobby.
I was bracing myself against the wall, on my way to the front window to settle these last two days of hospital fees.
The hospital gown hung loose on me, making me look pale and drained.
I stopped and turned toward the voice.
Eric stood there in a sharp suit, brow furrowed as he looked at me.
His right arm was held tight in Maria's grip.
She was balanced on one foot, most of her weight leaning into him.
She had on a white dress today, the hem falling just to her knees, a small patch of red and swollen skin showing at her ankle.
"Why's his wife at the hospital?"
