“Post something in the family group chat. Now.” Owen's voice was clipped, impatient.
“Tell them you've been stressed at work, pre-wedding jitters, and you want to push the engagement party back.”
“Don't bring up Rosie. I don't need the relatives running their mouths.”
I pressed my hand against my stomach. Flat now. “Fine. Anything else?”
Owen paused, caught off guard. His tone softened a fraction.
“Bobbie, don't be too upset about all this.”
“Once Rosie's feeling better, I'll take you to pick out that wedding dress you liked.”
“I know today was hard on you.”
I said nothing. I hung up.
Hard on me?
No. It wasn't hard on me.
I was just disgusted.
I opened WhatsApp and scrolled to the post Rosamund had just put up on social media.
A slender, pale hand wearing an engagement ring.
The ring Owen and I had picked out together.
Our initials were engraved on the inside of the band.
He'd said it was too much trouble, that since Rosamund liked the design, he'd just lend it to her for a while. Calm her down.
“It's just a ring. I'll buy you a bigger one later.”
I stared at the photo.
My fingertip hovered over the screen for a long time.
Then, slowly, I raised my left hand.
On my ring finger, a faint indentation circled the skin.
A plain band ring I'd bought myself. Three years I'd worn it.
I forced it off.
The metal edge scraped skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
I placed the ring on top of the induced-labor consent form, right over my signature.
The nurse froze when she came to collect the paperwork.
“Ms. Summers, the ring……”
“I don't want it.”
I turned my head toward the window. The sky was a flat, colorless gray.
“Put it toward the hospital bill.”
Eight years.
And a child who never got to see the world.
All of it died in that moment.
Three days later, I signed the discharge papers.
The doctor told me to stay in bed, rest, and under no circumstances touch cold water.
I nodded, then took a cab back to the Riverview Apartment alone.
This was the place Owen and I had set up for after the wedding.
On the coffee table in the living room, an unopened box of wedding favors still sat waiting.
I pulled open the drawer beneath the table.
Inside was a thick binder of pre-wedding checklists.
Venue layout, guest list, every last detail in my handwriting.
Underneath the binder was a pink envelope folder.
I slid it out.
Inside were a stack of prenatal reports and several pairs of baby socks with the tags still on.
I'd planned to surprise Owen with the news at the engagement party.
I'd even picked out a name.
It was written on the last page of the planning binder.
I turned to that page and looked at the two words I'd penciled in. The name I'd chosen for our baby.
My vision blurred.
The lock beeped once, soft and electronic.
Owen walked in.
He was wearing the black coat I'd bought him, a sleek gift bag in one hand.
He stopped when he saw me on the couch.
“You're out of the hospital?”
He walked over and set the bag on the coffee table.
“Why didn't you call me? I would've picked you up.”
“No need.” I tucked the envelope folder back into the drawer.
“I got myself home.”
Owen sighed and sat down beside me.
He reached over to touch my hair.
I tilted my head away.
His hand hung in the air. Something in his expression hardened.
“Bobbie, how long are you going to keep this up?”
He pulled his hand back, a thin thread of exasperation in his voice.
