I Buried My Husband the Day My Daughter Was Born

I pushed the stroller in to sell our home.

The agent ran through the routine questions.

"Selling the marital home—does your husband agree to this?"

The baby suddenly burst into tears.

With practiced ease, I cradled her in my left arm and signed with my right.

The signature came out a little crooked, because my wrist had been aching for a month.

"I'm widowed."

The man named Tom Henson was still very much alive.

Living exactly the way he had before our marriage—bright, golden, doing whatever he pleased.

But as my daughter's father, the day she was born, he died.

My phone rang. It was Tom.

On the other end came the voice of a young woman.

"Mr. Henson, you poor thing, what you have to put up with!"

"You, so polished and refined, and your wife such a slob!"

"Look at this place, what a mess. A mouse would need GPS to find its way through!"

"Ugh, why does it smell like crap in here? Gross—"

Then Tom's voice came through, pinched with disgust, like he was holding his nose.

"She didn't used to be like this."

"She got lazy after she had the kid."

I calmly handed the contract back to the agent.

However much I loved him before the pregnancy, before the birth.

That's exactly how much I hated him after she came into the world.

——

"Mom, I've booked the flight."

"Sweetheart, are you really sure about leaving? Ten years together—"

"Sunk costs don't factor into major decisions."

"Good. The baby isn't on a birth certificate yet, right? Register her back in Southport. She takes your name."

"Mm. That's exactly what I'm planning."

After I took a cab home.

A strange calm settled over me.

However fiercely I'd loved back then, that's how deep the hatred cut now.

So what if we'd been the model campus couple.

Moonlight and romance don't stand a chance against the grinding, petty mess of real life.

Holding my daughter, my exhausted body sank into the couch.

How had Tom and I gotten to this point?

The day he found out I was unexpectedly pregnant, Tom was overjoyed.

"Maggie, once things settle down, I'll give you the grand wedding you deserve."

He stroked my belly, his eyes shining.

"Maggie, trust me, I'll be a good father."

We'd been together ten years, from nineteen to twenty-nine.

I believed him. I believed he'd be a good father.

I believed the marriage license was just a formality.

So I settled in to focus on the pregnancy.

He hired a new assistant, Elena Fox, to take over my old role.

After that, he was always busy.

Busy painting.

Busy with his students.

Busy giving interviews.

Busy putting on exhibitions.

I waited and waited for his "once things settle down," and it never came.

But there was always Elena's shadow at his side.

He missed one prenatal checkup after another.

I called him.

Elena answered.

"So sorry, ma'am, Mr. Henson is in the middle of an interview."

The day my water broke and I went to the hospital.

I called 911 myself.

Elena had packed the hospital bag.

One pack of diapers and two baby onesies. That was it.

She wore an apologetic look.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am, I don't really know about these things."

"Mr. Henson is just so busy, he couldn't get to it. So I took the liberty—"

I came within an inch of death on that delivery table.

The nurse wheeled me and the baby back to the room.

Elena was peeling an apple for my mother-in-law.

Jeanette Dickerson had a smile on her face.

"Elena, honey, if only you were my daughter-in-law. Young and so capable!"

Then she saw me come in.

Jeanette's eyes flicked over the wrinkled little face in the stroller with open distaste.

"Just as I thought—too old, and a useless womb to match!"

I ignored the contempt in her eyes.

"Where's Tom? I just gave birth and he isn't here at my side?"

Elena explained with a smile.

"Ma'am, Mr. Henson is working on a new piece. It needs his full attention."