For days, I'd been drowning in self-blame and guilt.
I didn't even dare complain when Antony said he was too busy to pick me up from the hospital.
But the truth—it sliced me apart like shards of glass.
What a joke.
Their child was eight months along. Almost ready to enter this world, to be adored and cherished by parents who loved it more than anything.
My child had been eight weeks. Murdered by its own father.
Reputation... divorce... not an accident...
The words exploded in my head like thunder.
My mind had rusted over. I stood there in a daze, and they didn't even notice me at first.
My body felt nailed to the floor. I couldn't run if I tried.
They sprang apart like they'd been electrocuted. Antony's eyes locked onto me, panic flickering across his face.
"What—what are you doing here?"
What am I doing here?
I wanted to laugh. I couldn't.
Wasn't he the reason I was in this godforsaken place?
Penelope's face went white. Tears welled in her eyes as her arms tightened around Antony's waist.
I suddenly remembered—last year, he'd gone out of his way to arrange an internship for her.
I'd found it odd. He never paid attention to the students he sponsored. Why the sudden generosity?
She's just a pitiful girl, he'd said. It was no trouble.
Right. No trouble at all to bring her into his bed.
I forced my voice steady, though it shook. "Antony, I'll give you the divorce. But why did you have to kill my child?"
He looked at me. Something flickered in his eyes—something that might have been regret.
"I'm sorry, Patsy. If you'd given birth, we'd still be tied together. Penelope is sensitive. She couldn't handle it. I needed to put her mind at ease."
The words hit me like lightning. My blood ran cold, then reversed course entirely.
I lunged forward, desperate to grab Penelope, to demand answers. Why did my child have to die for your peace of mind?
She shrank back, sobbing. "I'm sorry, Patsy! I just love him so much—I only wanted my baby to have all of its father's love—"
I threw myself at her. Antony yanked her behind him and shoved me away.
"Patsy! Enough!"
"Look at yourself! You're not worth a tenth of her! What did I ever see in you?!"
I stared at Penelope. That face—twenty-something, radiant, blooming with youth. And mine at thirty-three: sallow, hollowed out, worn to the bone.
The fight drained out of me. All that remained was a bleak, endless wasteland where my heart used to be.
I sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the muffled sobs coming through the phone.
In the vanity mirror across the room, my young face wavered like a mirage.
But the expression it wore—grief, fury, bitter regret—belonged to my thirty-three-year-old self.
I'd thought I couldn't empathize with her pain.
My cheeks were already wet with tears.
"Are you still going to marry him?"
I turned the question back on her. "Do you still love him?"
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
I was her. I knew.
Our love for Antony had seeped into our marrow years ago.
After a long silence, I said honestly, "I can't stop loving him. And I can't give up the version of him who loves me so fiercely right now. Making a twenty-four-year-old Antony pay for what he'll do in ten years... that wouldn't be fair either."
"If we can't cut out the root, we avoid it."
"You mean... stay away from Penelope? But will that change anything?"
"If nothing could change, you wouldn't have called me. We have to try."
Her voice lifted, a spark of hope breaking through. "You're right. We're truly in love—why should I hide? Love is worth fighting for. Then let's do this..."
The day Antony and I registered our marriage, I made one request.
If either of us files for divorce due to infidelity, the cheating party leaves with nothing.
