“Jean, I was wrong last night,” he said softly. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
I didn’t answer. Just muttered, “I’m a little tired,” and went straight upstairs to sleep.
The next morning, I asked our housekeeper to take Matthew to school. I didn’t have the strength. It wasn’t until the afternoon that I finally felt a little better.
By evening, I went out to pick him up myself—just wanting to hold my son.
But the kindergarten teacher looked surprised.
“An aunt already picked him up earlier,” she said. “Mr. Sharp arranged it.”
Panic slammed into me. I immediately called Geoffrey.
No answer.
I called again. And again.
Still nothing.
My hands were shaking. Cold sweat beaded my forehead. Just as I was about to call the police, he finally picked up.
Loud music blasted through the receiver—a birthday song, clinking glasses, laughter.
“It’s my friend’s birthday,” he said over the noise. “Come join us. Bring Matthew, let him have fun.”
I couldn’t suppress it anymore. My voice rose.
“You didn’t even tell me! Do you know how scared I—”
Then I heard Matthew’s voice in the background.
“Mom, it’s Aunt Caroline—”
Click.
The line went dead.
The busy tone buzzed in my ear.
I stood frozen on the street as the wind lashed against my skin. I’d never felt so cold.
---
At home, I waited on the couch until deep into the night.
Finally, I heard laughter at the door.
Matthew ran in, beaming, a cake box in hand.
“Mom! Aunt Caroline’s cake was yummy! She taught me how to make cream flowers!”
The sweet scent of strawberry jam mixed with an unfamiliar floral perfume. My stomach turned. I ran into the bathroom, retching uncontrollably.
“What’s wrong?”
Geoffrey followed me in, placing a hand on my back. “Are you sick?”
He handed me a towel, then paused.
“…Have you had your period lately?”
I looked up sharply, meeting his eyes.
His face lit up.
“Could we… have a second baby?”
There was a flicker of hope in his voice. The kind that used to belong to us. It hurts more than anything.
He had always wanted a daughter.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The next morning, I took a pregnancy test.
Two red lines.
Positive.
When he saw it, he swept me into his arms and spun me around with joy.
He kissed my forehead and whispered, “She’s coming. Our little girl.”
He promised he’d cleared his schedule. He said he’d take me to the hospital himself.
But when the day finally came, I stood alone in the hospital corridor, holding my early pregnancy report, calling him over and over.
He never answered.
Then a text popped up:
"Caroline got into a car accident. I can't leave right now."
I opened Instagram. The latest post from Caroline showed her pouting with a bandaged hand.
“Just a little scratch~ Someone’s being too dramatic 🥺”
The sterile smell of disinfectant filled my lungs. I felt like choking.
My fingers trembled around the report.
I walked to the nurse’s desk and said, quietly but firmly:
“Please help me schedule an abortion.”
---
As the anesthesia spread through my body, I closed my eyes.
But I couldn’t stop the tears.
---
When the procedure was over, I leaned against the wall, weak but determined to walk on my own.
That’s when I saw him.
At the end of the corridor, Geoffrey was crouched down in front of Caroline, his back turned to me. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
That posture.
Seven years ago, when I was rushed into surgery for appendicitis, he crouched just like that beside my hospital bed—and carried me on his back to the car.
I remembered my senior year. I had a terrible cold. It was freezing, but he stood outside my dorm for three hours just to bring me a box of cold medicine.
