“Still mad? I got you those heels you wanted. You kept saying you liked them, right?”
He held out a shoebox like a peace offering. Red-soled heels—the exact pair I'd mentioned more than once.
Only there were faint scuff marks near the sole. And the size was two smaller than mine. These were never meant for me.
I remembered instantly. A few days ago, his latest fling had posted these same shoes on social media, posing and preening before adding a complaint:
“God, my man is so basic. Told me the red soles were 'hot' and literally made me model them for him. Embarrassingly tacky.”
Then she'd let her dog walk all over them, captioning it something about how even the dog wouldn't wear them.
The girl's name was Lorna Winfield, a junior in the dance program. She'd met Duncan at a drinking party.
I hadn't been there that night. I'd hurt my back caring for Duncan's bedridden grandmother.
He didn't say a single comforting word. I limped home and found the two of them tangled in our bed.
Duncan raised an eyebrow, smiling like it was nothing：
“Don't be mad. She just reminds me of you at eighteen. That same freshness, that same beauty.”
“Don't worry that I'll forget about you now that she's here. I still love you.”
So in his mind, all I deserved were shoes even a dog had rejected.
Always telling me he loved me, while behind my back I was the worn-out woman he was too embarrassed to show off.
I closed the lid with a bitter smile and looked up at him.
“These aren't for me, are they?”
“You forgot. I can't wear heels anymore.”
Duncan's eyes went wide for a second, a flicker of shame crossing his face before it smoothed over.
“Bina, I've been thinking about how much you wanted them. Slipped my mind you're still pregnant. Just save them for after the baby comes. No rush.”
“And that gift you sent me the other day, I really liked it. Don't go to the trouble anymore, though. Just focus on taking care of the baby.”
He set the box aside and reached over, pressing his palm against my stomach, trying to feel for the baby.
My blood went cold. He had never even opened that package.
I stepped away without making it obvious, head down, fingers crushing the fabric of my skirt：
“I'm glad you liked it.”
He stood there, awkward, and changed the subject：
“You called me the day before yesterday. I was busy. Was it something important?”
I made that call while I was bleeding out on the table, pad after pad soaking through red beneath me, sure I was going to die.
The only reason I called him was to ask him to bury me with the baby.
Dozens of calls. It never went to voicemail. He simply chose not to answer.
Just like the miscarriage papers I'd mailed him. He didn't want to know.
But of course. I had only lost half my life and a child. Why should that get in the way of him and Lorna?
“It was nothing.” I lowered my eyes. There was nothing left inside to feel.
He opened his mouth to say something else, but a ringtone cut in, some cutesy, whiny sound that didn't belong to any work contact.
Duncan killed the call immediately and cleared his throat：
“Bina, something came up with work. Gotta handle it.”
He ducked into the bathroom. Muffled laughter seeped through the door.
He hadn't noticed that I could barely stand, or that my lips had gone white.
I picked up my mother's call.
“Go ahead with the wedding however you want to arrange it. I can come back anytime.”
My mother asked：“Don't you want to know who the groom is?”
I exhaled, too tired to care：“Who it is or who it isn't, when have I ever had a say? Just decide for me.”
My mother choked back tears but said nothing, only that this was the best thing for me.
We settled on a date for the family to come get me. One week, and I would be gone.
