"Elizabeth, last night was my fault. I’ll be more careful next time."
I only said I was a little tired and went straight upstairs to sleep.
In the morning, I asked the housekeeper to take Andrew to school. It wasn’t until the afternoon that I finally felt a bit of energy return.
By evening, I went to pick Andrew up from kindergarten.
But the teacher told me that an auntie had already picked him up early.
I pressed for details, and she said it was arranged by David.
Panicked, I immediately called David.
The call went through, but no one answered.
Sweat broke out all over my body in fear. Just as I was about to call the police, he finally picked up.
Deafening birthday cheers and the clinking of glasses blasted through the phone.
"A friend’s birthday," David’s voice was drowned in noise. "I brought Andrew along for some fun."
The tension inside me surged uncontrollably. I raised my voice, "Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?! Do you even know—"
My son’s bright voice chimed in, "Mommy, it’s Auntie Ella…"
The call abruptly cut off, followed by a harsh dial tone.
I stood alone on the street, the wind howling past me. Suddenly, I felt so, so cold.
When I got home, I waited on the couch alone until late at night. Finally, laughter echoed from the entryway.
Andrew rushed into my arms, holding an exquisite cake box. "Mommy! Auntie Ella made this cake—it’s so yummy! She even taught me how to pipe frosting flowers!"
The sickly sweetness of strawberry jam mixed with an unfamiliar perfume assaulted my nose.
A wave of nausea hit me, and I rushed to the bathroom, retching uncontrollably.
"What’s wrong?" David came in, his hand on my back. "Not feeling well?"
He handed me a towel, then suddenly asked, "Elizabeth, have you had your period recently?"
I jerked my head up, meeting his gaze.
He leaned closer, his tone hopeful. "Is there a chance… we might be having a second baby?"
The wild excitement in his eyes stung mine.
He had always wanted me to give him another child.
But that night, I lay awake, restless.
The next morning, I took a pregnancy test myself.
Two bright red lines.
I was really pregnant.
When David saw the test, he spun me around in joy.
He had always wanted a daughter.
He even said he’d adjusted his work schedule to take time off and accompany me to the hospital for a checkup.
But when the day came, I clutched the early pregnancy report in the hospital hallway, calling him over and over—with no answer. I kept telling myself he must be busy, until a text popped up:
"Ella got into a car accident. I can’t leave right now."
On social media, Ella had just posted a selfie with her bandaged hand, captioned with a pouty crying face:
"Just a tiny scratch, but someone’s making a huge fuss over it."
Maybe it was the overwhelming smell of disinfectant, but I instantly felt sick again.
My fingers trembled as I gripped the report, then knocked on the doctor’s office door.
"Doctor, please schedule an abortion for me."
As the anesthesia seeped into my veins, I closed my eyes, but tears kept falling.
After the procedure, I staggered out of the operating room, leaning against the wall for support.
Then, a familiar figure came into view.
David was crouching at the end of the hallway, offering his broad back to Ella.
The sight was all too familiar.
Seven years ago, after my emergency appendectomy, he had carried me on his back just like that.
I remembered back in college, when I had a terrible cold in the dead of winter—he stood outside my dorm for three hours just to bring me medicine.
