I've given birth three times before. Every single baby arrived on New Year's Eve.
My mom always said children born on New Year's Eve were blessed by fortune—destined for wealth.
The reality? Every single one of my babies died the moment they were born.
Three husbands divorced me over it. They all said the same thing: I was cursed. A woman who devoured her own children. A walking disaster.
But here's the strange part—within six months of each divorce, another man would appear. Richer. More handsome. More desperate.
They'd practically beg me to marry them.
Arnold Cobb pursued me for three years before I finally gave in.
This time, I was careful. I calculated my due date to avoid New Year's Eve entirely.
But my body refused to cooperate. Month after month, I couldn't conceive.
Then one night in May, Arnold came home drunk. Wild. Out of control.
He forced himself on me.
I got pregnant.
When I did the math, my stomach dropped. The due date fell on New Year's Eve. Again.
I wanted to terminate. Arnold and my mother wept, begging me to keep the baby. They swore this time would be different. Lightning doesn't strike four times, they said.
The baby would survive.
New Year's Eve arrived.
The C-section was quick. I heard my baby cry—one sharp, beautiful wail.
Before I could even see the face, the crying stopped.
Forever.
——
"Emergency! We need a crash cart!"
"The baby stopped breathing!"
The nurse had just lifted my child toward me—one glimpse, that's all I got—when her face went white.
Arnold burst through the door seconds later, his whole body trembling.
"How is this happening?" His voice cracked. "I heard the baby crying! How can there be no heartbeat?"
I'd seen this performance before. Three times, in fact.
Different husband. Different face. Same script.
Time dissolved into nothing. Minutes or hours—I couldn't tell.
The resuscitation room doors finally swung open.
The doctor's eyes found mine immediately. I already knew what he was going to say.
"We're... so sorry." He couldn't hold my gaze. "We couldn't save the baby."
Arnold staggered backward, catching himself against the wall before his legs gave out.
Four.
Four children I'd carried. Four children I'd lost.
It had to be fate. My fate.
My mother rushed to my bedside and seized my hand. Her palm was slick with cold sweat.
"Sweetheart, something is very wrong here." Her voice shook. "Something unclean has latched onto you—it has to be! Why else would this keep happening?"
"That was my fourth grandchild!"
She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
I turned my gaze to Arnold. A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
"The baby's gone. You should divorce me too."
"I'm cursed. I destroy my own children—I can't give you one. Isn't that all your parents ever wanted? A grandchild to carry on the family name?"
My words seemed to snap something awake in him.
He looked away, staring at the floor. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm their only son. They're getting older. They've been waiting for this grandchild for so long."
"Without a child... I don't know how to keep us together."
I almost laughed.
My previous husbands had all said sorry too. Then they'd turned and walked away without a backward glance.
As if love simply evaporated the moment the baby did.
"Fine."
I nodded. The speed of my agreement made both Arnold and my mother freeze.
"I'll agree to the divorce."
I pushed my exhausted body upright, leaning against the headboard. "But before we sign anything, there's something that needs to be handled first."
"What?" My mother's eyes narrowed.
I didn't answer.
Instead, I slowly reached beneath my pillow and pulled out my phone.
Then I dialed 911.
"I need to report a crime. There's been a murder."
"Meryl Fox’s Three Ex-Husbands Fox! What are you doing?!"
"The baby's death was an accident! Are you actually suggesting someone killed your child?!"
