We were both fragile, two broken souls bound by time and circumstance.
Cohen sat stiffly in his wheelchair, his expression as cold as stone. Meanwhile, tears clung to my cheeks, but I forced a crooked smile, the kind that barely touched the surface.
It was the first smile I had managed since the day my world fell apart.
Looking at the photo, at the young versions of Cohen and me, I couldn’t help but think “pitiful.” The innocence of that moment felt like a distant dream, a faint echo of something that could never be again.
But that photo was one of my most cherished possessions. Over the years, Cohen had made it clear that no pictures of the two of us would remain. Yet this one, taken when I was still a child, caught in a family portrait, he had reluctantly allowed me to keep.
Time had yellowed the edges of the photo, its fragility mirroring our own. Now, the glass frame lay shattered, the image trampled beneath it.
With what little strength I had left, I knelt and picked up the photo, clutching it to my chest as if it could somehow restore everything that had been lost.
3
The baby was lost.
When I woke, my first thought was of the child. The doctor, noticing my immediate concern, looked taken aback before answering, “You’re still so young. What’s the rush?”
She sighed, her voice tinged with something like disappointment. “My daughter is two years older than you and still in school. Why the hurry to get pregnant?”
I didn’t want this. I hadn’t asked for it.
When I first found out I was pregnant, it was like being a child caught in a mistake, terrified and lost in the consequences.
That day, Imogen was hosting her welcome-back banquet, and I had arrived late due to the checkup. I never expected that the results from my afternoon visit would end up in Cohen’s hands that very night.
“Mine?”
His voice was cold and unreadable, a mixture of restrained anger or suspicion swirling beneath the surface.
Imogen, standing beside him, looked radiant in her bright dress, almost mocking. She took the results from his hand and teased, “Is it yours? Weren’t you in Canada last month, surfing with me?”
The doctor had told me the timing of the pregnancy wasn’t certain. Even though Cohen had been abroad during that period, there was that weekend... when we had crossed paths.
I wanted to explain that there was no one else. That he was the only one.
But the coldness in his gaze froze the words on my lips.
Imogen, radiant as ever, was the center of attention that evening, the spotlight shining solely on her.
Whether by design or sheer coincidence, the crowd began to pass around my pregnancy report as if it were just another piece of gossip to share.
Cohen’s face grew darker by the second.
I stood frozen, stumbling over my words, my voice barely a whisper as I muttered endless apologies. "I’m sorry," I repeated, but the words felt hollow in the air.
He looked at me for a long, torturous moment, his eyes unreadable. Then, as if to shut down the whispers around us, he turned to the crowd. "Sorry for the commotion. Giselle and I are indeed getting engaged soon."
The expressions around us shifted, confusion and surprise flickering across their faces.
Just moments ago, the elders had been discussing Cohen’s upcoming engagement to Imogen. Now, the fiancée had changed, and so had the news: pregnancy was in the mix.
Imogen, ever the gracious actress, stepped in with a smile, taking my arm and guiding me away. But before she did, she leaned in with a sweet, almost mocking tone, saying, "Little girls can be so naive. Cohen, you must take responsibility for her."
With those words, what could have been a gesture of love turned into a heavy shackle of obligation for Cohen.
Now that the baby was gone, I felt an unexpected wave of relief, though it left a strange emptiness behind.
The doctor reassured me, his tone gentle but firm, that everything had been handled cleanly. He told me to rest well in the coming days.
"Where is your family? Weren’t there people who brought you here earlier? Why is no one with you now?"
His words hit me like a cold wind. My heart felt hollow, a gaping void where the family had once been.
My father had vanished without a trace. My mother had remarried. And then there was Cohen…
I had once believed that Cohen would be my family forever, but now, even that was a lie.
"May I borrow your phone?"
The doctor’s voice snapped me from my thoughts.
He asked the nurse to hand me a phone, and I took it, feeling a flicker of confidence rise within me.
Years ago, I had sent my artwork drafts to a prestigious school abroad, and they had offered me a place. One professor had even asked to see more of my work, making me feel as though I could prove my worth.
