The morning after Grandpa died, my phone finally lit up with Harrison's name. I answered on the first ring, my throat raw from crying.
"Jordan," his voice was crisp, businesslike. "I'm returning your calls."
I pressed the phone harder against my ear, as if that might make his words more meaningful. "You didn't call yesterday. Or the day before."
"I was following up on a lead about Eden's missing years," he explained, no trace of apology in his tone. "It was important."
Important. More important than my grandfather's death. More important than me.
"Your grandfather was ninety-three, Jordan," Harrison continued, his voice distant. "You had to know this was coming."
I opened my mouth to respond—to scream, to cry, to beg him to understand—but found I had no words left. What was there to say to someone who couldn't see you even when you were standing right in front of them?
I ended the call.
---
Three days later, I stood alone at Grandpa's graveside. The cemetery was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the soft murmurs of perhaps twenty people from his retirement community who had come to pay their respects.
"Jordan?" A hesitant voice broke through my grief. Catherine Morgan, our household staff member, stood a few feet away, clutching a small bouquet of daisies. "I thought... I thought you might want company."
I nodded, unable to speak as tears threatened again. Catherine stepped forward, placing her flowers beside the generic arrangement Harrison had sent—carnations and baby's breath, the kind you'd find at any supermarket florist.
"He was a good man," she said softly. "I remember how he used to visit you at the house before..."
Before Harrison. Before Eden. Before I became a ghost in my own life.
"Thank you for coming," I whispered.
Catherine's presence was the only testament to my grief that day. Harrison didn't attend. He didn't even call to ask how it went.
---
Six weeks later, I sat in Dr. Sarah Chen's office, staring at the pregnancy test in my hand.
"I noticed some irregularities in your bloodwork," Dr. Chen explained gently. "Given your history and your heart condition, we need to be especially careful."
I nodded mechanically, my mind elsewhere. Pregnant. The word echoed in my head like a distant bell.
"Jordan?" Dr. Chen's voice seemed to come from far away. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes," I managed. "I'm pregnant."
But I felt nothing. No joy. No fear. Just a strange numbness that spread through my chest.
I never wanted to bring a child into this toxic marriage, but here it was, growing inside me anyway.
For three days, I kept the secret. I wandered through our house like a ghost, watching Harrison dote on Eden, listening to their laughter from behind closed doors.
On the fourth day, I woke to a searing pain in my abdomen. The bedsheets in my guest room were stained crimson, the blood spreading like spilled wine.
"No," I whispered, pressing my hands against my stomach. "No, please."
But my body had made its decision. The miscarriage was swift and brutal.
Catherine found me there, curled on the bathroom floor. Without hesitation, she called an ambulance and rode with me to the hospital, her hand gripping mine as silent tears streamed down my face.
---
From the sterile hospital bed, I finally called Harrison. He answered on the third ring, his voice impatient.
"What is it, Jordan? I'm in a meeting."
I swallowed hard, tasting salt and copper. "I was pregnant. I lost it. I'm at Presbyterian Hospital."
There was a long pause—so long I thought the call had dropped.
Finally, his voice came back, cold and final: "I only ever wanted children with Eden. This is probably for the best."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, then at the white ceiling tiles above me. Something had shifted inside me—something beyond grief or pain or loss. It was the death of hope itself.
Dr. Chen entered quietly, her eyes taking in my empty expression.
"Your husband?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
I shook my head slightly.
She nodded, understanding without words. As she checked my vitals and IV, I saw her make a note in my chart: "Patient experiencing severe emotional distress in addition to physical trauma. Husband absent and apparently unsupportive."
I closed my eyes, too exhausted to care what she wrote. In that moment, I realized I was mourning not just my lost child, but the final death of any illusion that Harrison might someday see me as human.
