Just as Dwayne was about to explode with anger, I spoke in a hoarse voice, "Dwayne, let’s get a divorce."
Dwayne froze, stunned. It seemed he couldn’t believe that I, who had always been devoted to him and the children, would ask for a divorce.
He looked at me impatiently and snapped, "Have you had enough trouble?"
I remained calm and replied, "I’m not making trouble. Let’s get a divorce."
As I spoke, I took out the divorce agreement I had just prepared. Its terms offered a fair and reasonable division for Dwayne.
Only then did he realize I was serious. His temper flared as he glared at me, saying, "Didn’t I just spend some money on you? I’ve already paid it back! I’ve already explained why I didn’t go to the hospital. What are you still fussing about?"
"Annie is just a girl—she couldn’t handle those things on her own. I only went to help! If you insist on holding on to this, then I don’t know what else to do!"
Annie appeared again, looking fragile and innocent, as if I were the one who had caused all the problems.
I repeated firmly, my tone resolute, "Dwayne, I want to divorce you."
Dwayne’s face darkened further, and finally, resorting to his usual tactic, he stormed out of the house.
Whenever Dwayne faces a situation he can’t resolve, he isolates himself—and me—even knowing I’m still pregnant. This time was no different.
Before leaving the house, he fixed me with a cold, piercing stare and warned:
"Don’t even think about doing anything to harm the child. Let me tell you, even if we divorce, the child must be raised by me!"
The sound of the door slamming shut echoed dully.
With my frail body, I forced myself to stand, walked over to the trash can, retrieved the crumpled report sheet, and carefully smoothed it out, as though trying to piece together my shattered heart.
From the moment Dwayne returned to the moment he left, he never once asked about my abdominal pain or the condition of our unborn child. Not a word about the dozens of missed calls I had made.
All he cared about was whether I was taking the medicine as he demanded.
I sat alone in the vast, empty living room, my eyes reddened once more.
Dwayne, you’ve lost the chance to be a father.
And with it, you’ve lost me, too.
The next day, Dwayne called again, urging me to take the anti-fetal medicine on time.
After a sleepless night, I steadied my emotions and replied calmly, "I’ll be waiting for you when you come back—for the divorce."
On the other end of the phone came Dwayne's almost roaring rebuke, "How long are you going to make trouble? I’m exhausted and don’t have time for your nonsense!"
In the end, Dwayne refused to sign the divorce agreement. Instead, he continued his cold, silent aggression and resorted to harsh threats, "You’re a failure who’s stayed home for eight years and never worked. What will you do without me after the child is born? Even if we divorce, the custody of the child will be mine. Think carefully about that!"
Hearing his angry words, I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly at myself. To Dwayne, I had always been nothing more than a tool for childbirth, and our child was just another checkpoint in his self-serving life.
Consumed by grief, I gathered every item we had prepared for the baby—from clothes to toys—and burned them one by one.
In the end, only a small portrait of the baby remained.
That portrait brought back memories of our most hopeful year together. Dwayne held my hand, and we painted an image of our imagined child, stroke by stroke. Her delicate features—eyes like mine and lips like his—formed a beautiful, happy vision of the daughter we had dreamed of raising in a loving family of three.
But Dwayne destroyed it all. Even the evidence of our child’s existence had been discarded like trash.
With trembling hands, I clutched the portrait to my chest, trying to feel the presence of the child I had lost. Tears fell uncontrollably as I finally let the flames consume it, turning every last remnant of that dream into ashes.
