As I continued scrolling, my breath hitched when I saw Zane's comment under Sabrina's post: [Your birthday must be celebrated, honey. Tell me what you want and I'll get it for you no matter what.]
My grip on the phone tightened as I read Sabrina's reply: [Thank you, Zane. You've never missed my birthday, not even once.]
A sharp, searing pain shot through my palms. I looked down to see my fingernails digging into my skin, leaving half-moon indents. My knuckles were white with tension, but I couldn't release my fists.
I cursed myself silently. 'Emma, why can't you just give up already? Why do you keep hoping for a love that isn't there?'
The thought left me hollow, as if the last spark of strength had been drained from my body. My hands moved on their own as I numbly scheduled an abortion on my phone.
***
The hospital smelled of disinfectant, the sterile air thick with an unsettling chill that seeped into my bones. I sat on a cold metal bench in the hallway, a small white box resting on the seat beside me. The box, unassuming and plain, held my stillborn child—barely two months old, a fragile existence snuffed out before it had begun.
A nurse spotted me from the other end of the corridor. Her footsteps slowed, her face flickering with surprise and confusion.
After a moment's hesitation, she approached softly and asked in a hushed tone, "Mrs. Nicholson? What are you doing here? Does your husband know about your miscarriage?"
The corners of my mouth twitched as I forced a brittle smile. It felt more like a grimace. "He knows," I lied.
Her surprise was understandable. Back when we were trying for a child, Zane had been the picture of a devoted husband. He had accompanied me to the hospital three times a week, taking care of every detail. He handled the registration, stood in line for appointments and even ran across the hospital to get my prescriptions.
He wouldn't let me lift a finger. "You focus on staying healthy, honey. I'll handle everything," he had said with that warm, reassuring smile.
The nurses had adored him, calling him the perfect husband. The doctors often praised his dedication, remarking on how rare it was to see a man so attentive.
Once, after a blood test left me lightheaded, he had cradled me in his arms, his voice thick with worry. "Emma, don't scare me like that. If you're not feeling well, tell me right away. Nothing's more important than you and the baby."
Back then, I had believed him. I had believed every word, every touch. I had thought I was the luckiest woman alive.
But now, thinking about it felt absurd. Those moments of tenderness were nothing but illusions, as fragile as the glass box I once held my hopes in.
My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my thoughts. The name on the screen sent a fresh wave of bitterness through me. It was Zane.
I hesitated for a moment before answering.
"Honey, where are you? Why aren't you home? I'm done with work. Didn't you want to celebrate your birthday?" His tone was playful, slightly petulant, as if he were teasing me.
Once, that tone would have softened me, made me think he was just clumsy at showing love. I would've acted cute, coaxing him into holding me. But now, the sound of his voice felt like a dagger twisting in my chest.
"I'm at the hospital," I said, my voice cold and devoid of emotion. "Come pick me up."
The line was silent for a moment before he replied, his voice hesitant, "The hospital? Are you okay? Why didn't you tell me—"
"I'll explain when you get here." I hung up before he could respond, unable to bear the feigned concern in his voice.
***
By the time we arrived home, it was late. The house was dark and quiet, the silence heavy and oppressive. My stomach growled audibly, a painful reminder that I hadn't eaten all day.
Clutching my abdomen, I dragged my weary body to the sofa and sank into it. The cold leather pressed against my skin, amplifying the ache in my heart.
Zane appeared moments later, stepping out of the dining room with a cake and a glossy gift bag in hand. He placed the gift in front of me with practiced ease, then wrapped his arms around me from behind, his breath warm against my cheek.
"Honey, don't be mad, okay? I transferred twenty-five grand into your account. Go buy yourself a nice bag or whatever you want. I'll make it up to you properly later," he said, his tone smooth and coaxing.
I turned my head slowly to face him, my gaze locking onto his. His eyes sparkled, his expression soft and affectionate—almost too perfect, like a mask molded to hide the truth.
"Zane," I said, my voice steady but cold. "Do you know? Today is also my cousin Sabrina's birthday. You know how much I hate her, yet somehow, we share the same day."
For a fleeting moment, a flicker of panic crossed his face. His lips parted, but no words came out. It was clear he hadn't expected me to bring up Sabrina.
"Why are you even mentioning her? She's no one important." He fumbled with the gift bag, pulling out a small velvet box. "Look, I got you this. I spent a lot of time picking it out."
Inside was a jade pin, intricately carved into the shape of a lotus flower—a symbol of fertility and new beginnings.
My blood boiled. The next second, I grabbed the pin and hurled it to the floor. The delicate jade shattered, shards scattering across the hardwood like fragments of my broken heart.
"Zane, what do you take me for? A baby-making machine?" My voice trembled with rage, but my words were sharp and precise, cutting through the air like knives.
Zane barely flinched. Instead, he stepped closer, his expression softening as he reached for me. He pulled me into his arms, his voice low and soothing.
