chapter1

At 1:45 a.m., I came across Claire’s post—a photo of a pregnancy test, captioned: “Thank you, Elias Bennett, for making me believe in miracles again.”

The comments were full of congratulations. He was tagged as “the child’s father.” We’ve been married seven years and never had any miracle.

So I booked a different kind of “miracle”—an abortion tomorrow morning. He gives her a child to prove his loyalty; I give up mine to prove I can live without him.

…

At 1:45 a.m., I saw Claire’s update on social media: a pregnancy test stick with the caption, “Thank you, Elias Bennett, for making me believe in miracles again.”

I opened the comments and saw blessings pouring in—and that Elias had been tagged as “the child’s father.”

By contrast, Elias and I have been married seven years and never had a child.

My fingers were shaking, but I still typed a comment: “Congratulations. What a surprise.”

Not thirty seconds later, my phone rang. It was Elias.

“What did you mean by that?” His voice bristled with anger. “Why would you say something like that under Claire’s post?”

“Did I say something wrong?” I tried to keep my tone even. “Shouldn’t I be congratulating you both?”

“You know how fragile she is right now! I’m just helping a friend who lost her husband achieve her dream of becoming a mother. Can’t you try to understand?”

I clenched the phone until my knuckles whitened. “So you became the father of her child? That’s what you call help?”

“You really disappoint me, Aria. I always thought you were understanding.” His tone was thick with reproach. “Clire needs support right now. This isn’t the time for your tantrums.”

He hung up in under two minutes. I stared at the dark screen, feeling my heart ripped into pieces.

A few minutes later, I unlocked my phone again and saw Claire’s new update: Elias was cooking in her apartment kitchen. In the photo he wore an apron, his back to the camera. Clire’s caption read, “Someone’s cooking for me in the middle of the night. I’m so happy.”

And I hit “confirm,” booking the abortion for nine tomorrow morning.

We’d wanted a child for all seven years of our marriage. Two months ago, when I finally saw two lines on the test, I naively thought it was a gift from above.

I even secretly bought baby clothes, planning to surprise Elias on our anniversary next week.

He doesn’t need that surprise anymore.

The key turned in the lock at the entryway. Elias walked in and tossed a takeout paper bag on the table. “Brought you a late-night snack.” He reached to hug me. “That rice bowl from your favorite Japanese place.”

I dodged his touch and glanced at the bag.

Inside the clear plastic container, the rice had gone cold and clumped; the edges of the salmon slices had already dried out.

“I’m not hungry.” I pushed the bag away.

“Don’t be like that.” He opened the box and held a spoonful to my lips. “I went out of my way to get it. Just try a bite.”

The cold fishy smell hit my nose. I bolted to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet.

Elias followed, pressing his palm to my back. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t touch me!” I slapped his hand away.

Being turned down over and over finally set him off. “What do you want from me?” His voice sharpened. “I’ve been bending over backwards, swallowing your snide remarks—what more do you expect me to do?”

I stared at him, incredulous. “You expect me to cheerfully congratulate another woman for carrying my husband’s child?”

“Claire just lost her husband! She only wants a child to ease the pain—is that so wrong?” He tugged irritably at his tie. “As her husband’s best friend, it’s my responsibility to look after his widow!”

“And,” he added, agitated, “we didn’t even sleep together! It was just a sperm donation! Do you have to blow it out of proportion?”

“You sound like a jealous shrew!”

A jealous shrew? When Claire’s husband died, I felt nothing but sympathy for her. I often invited her over for dinner; whenever something in her home needed fixing, I went with Elias to help. She would say, teary-eyed, “If my husband were still alive, I wouldn’t be troubling you like this.”

I always smiled and comforted her, and Elias would nod firmly: “If you need anything, come to me.”

I thought it was just the decent thing to do. But at some point, Elias started accompanying her alone—handling inheritance papers with her, going with her to therapy, even rushing over the moment her car broke down. At home, he’d never show that kind of initiative about my needs.

I never imagined his “help” would go this far.

That child will call him Dad; Claire will call him the child’s father. And me? What about the child we were supposed to have?

I’d planned to talk it through calmly—until I overheard him telling Claire on the phone, “She’s just being unreasonable. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you and the baby.”

Now, looking at his righteous expression, I knew talking was useless.

“Think hard about how selfish you are!” Elias flung the words at me and slammed the door on his way out.

Where would he go this late? The answer was obvious.

A few minutes later, Clire posted again: a photo of Elias’s hand resting lightly on her slightly rounded belly. The caption read, “The baby’s daddy is staying the night with us. He says this feels like home.”

I stared at the photo and laughed at my own stupidity. This marriage had been rotting for a long time, and I only realized it today. Maybe I should’ve known the moment he stopped calling her “my best friend’s widow” and started saying “Claire” like it was intimate.

Good. Finding out now isn’t too late.

I picked up a pen and signed my name on the divorce papers, set them right in the middle of the dining table, then dragged my suitcase out without looking back. As the elevator doors slid shut, my phone rang—Elias. I powered it off.

Tomorrow at nine, I’ll end this mistake with my own hands. And when Elias comes home, he’ll find he’s lost even more.