Chapter 1

Hazel

The house was quiet, calm, still.

I sat by the living room window, my chin resting against my palm, watching the shadows outside stretch long across the street.

The lights in the neighbors’ houses glowed warm and golden, carrying muffled laughter and clinking dishes. I imagined families gathered around tables, voices raised in cheer, people blowing out candles with someone to clap for them.

It was supposed to be my day.

My birthday.

For weeks, I had clung to the hope that maybe this year would be a little different.

That he would remember.

That my husband would smile at me the way he used to, back when I was more than just someone who kept his house in order.

Maybe my little boy would run into my arms, clutching a crumpled card he made with his tiny hands, his excitement making up for whatever his father forgot. I told myself not to expect too much, but hope was a cruel thing, it refused to die quietly.

The morning had started empty. I reached across the bed and touched the cold sheets where he should have been.

There was no note.

No whisper of “happy birthday” before he left.

My chest had fluttered with foolish excitement. Maybe he had taken our son out to plan a surprise. Maybe….

The maid’s voice broke that illusion.

“They left earlier, ma’am,” she told me gently, her eyes fixed on the floor as if she couldn’t bear to look at me.

“Left?” I asked, my voice catching.

“Yes. The master and the young master. They didn’t say when they’d be back.”

I remember the way my throat tightened, but I forced a smile, nodding as if it didn’t matter.

So I waited.

The table was set with my favorite meal, untouched and slowly growing cold. The cake I had ordered for myself sat on the counter, the frosting softening in the heat. I hadn’t lit the candles yet though.

I couldn’t bring myself to.

What was the point of wishing if the very people I wished for weren’t here?

Every car that passed made me rush to the window, only to feel my heart sink deeper each time it wasn’t them.

By the time the clock struck midnight, I was still sitting there in the dark, my phone clutched in my hand, rereading old messages from years ago, back when the love wasn’t just a memory.

Morning sunlight streamed weakly through the curtains.

My body ached from sitting in the same spot all night and my head was pounding.

Still, when I heard the familiar sound of the front door unlocking, a surge of relief rushed through me so strong I almost stumbled as I stood.

They were home. Finally,

I wanted to be angry, to demand why they had left me waiting, why they had missed something so important. But when I saw my little boy trailing sleepily behind his father, his small hand clasped in the much larger one, my heart softened. I opened my mouth, ready to greet them, to hear at least a “sorry” or maybe even a belated “happy birthday.”

Instead, his voice came first.

“Why isn’t breakfast ready?” He asked coldly.

I froze, the words lodging in my throat.

No hello?

No explanation as to why they hadn't been here last night?

Just a scolding?

“I…” My voice faltered.

“I didn’t… I thought—”

“You thought?” He raised his brows, his tone dripping with irritation. “You had the whole morning. What exactly have you been doing?”

What have I been doing?

What I had been doing was waiting and hoping.

But I didn't give him any of that. Instead I stood there pretending like the ache in my chest wasn’t tearing me apart. But none of that mattered to him.

My son glanced up at me with sleepy eyes, but he said nothing.

He was too young to understand, too used to the tension that hung in this house like smoke. I forced a smile for him, though my lips trembled.

“I’ll make something quickly,” I whispered.

“Don't bother. You've proven to be useless again.” He said, already walking away, heading toward the door again, tugging our son along with him.

The sound of the door closing behind them echoed louder than a slam. It reverberated through me, leaving me cold and hollow.

I sank into the chair at the table, my hands gripping the edge until my knuckles turned white.

The untouched cake still sat on the counter, mocking me with its fading sweetness. The candles remained unlit.

The silence after the door closed was deafening.

I sat there, staring at the space they had just walked through, as if by some miracle they would turn back.

But they didn’t.

I pressed my palms against the table, forcing myself to breathe slowly. I told myself it wasn’t supposed to hurt this much, that I should be used to it by now.

Being overlooked and forgotten.

But no matter how much I tried to convince myself, the sting was still there. A raw, throbbing ache that no amount of pretending could dull.

My gaze drifted to the cake again. The one I had bought with my own money, imagining that maybe my husband would come home early, and we would gather around it as a family. I had even pictured my son’s little hands clapping when I blew out the candles.

Foolish.

All of it.

I stood and walked to the counter, tracing my finger along the frosting before quickly pulling back. I didn’t even have the appetite for it anymore.

What was cake without joy? Without laughter? Without love? It would just be nothing but sugar on my tongue, heavy in my stomach.

I wandered back into the living room, lowering myself onto the sofa. My body was tired, but sleep felt impossible. My mind was loud and I kept replaying his words in my head.

“What have you been doing?”

I curled into myself, clutching at the swell of my stomach as if holding on to the only piece of hope I had left. At least this child would be mine. At least this one would love me unconditionally.

I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I imagined a different life. One where my birthday mattered. One where the man I married looked at me with pride instead of irritation. One where I wasn’t alone.

But dreams don’t last.

A sharp pain suddenly sliced through my abdomen, forcing a gasp from my lips. I doubled over, clutching my belly tighter.

The pain came again, sharper than the first, pulling a strangled cry from my throat.

My hands gripped the arm of the sofa so tightly my nails dug into the fabric. I tried to breathe through it, tried to convince myself it was nothing serious, maybe just false labor.

But deep down, I knew. This wasn’t supposed to happen now. It was too soon.

Panic surged through me. My heart hammered against my ribs as I fumbled for my phone. My fingers shook so badly I could barely press the buttons. I pressed his number, the one I knew by heart.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then…

“What?” His voice came through, clipped and impatient.

I swallowed hard, my eyes brimming with tears. “Please, you need to come home. Something’s wrong. The baby—”

“I’m busy. Can’t you handle anything on your own? Stop exaggerating.”

Then the line went dead.

For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the phone in disbelief, as if maybe I had imagined it. But no. The silence on the other end confirmed it, he wasn’t coming. He didn’t believe me.

A sob tore from my chest. I tried calling again, but this time it went straight to voicemail. My hands trembled so hard I nearly dropped the phone.

The pain surged again, searing through me like fire. I doubled over, clutching my belly, rocking back and forth as tears blurred my vision.

The room seemed to spin, every sound muffled except for the pounding of my heartbeat and the rush of blood in my ears.

I pressed my palm against my swollen stomach, whispering through clenched teeth, “Please, just hold on. Please.”

I thought of calling the maid, but she was gone for the day. I thought of calling an ambulance, but fear paralyzed me. What if it was too late by the time they came? What if—

Another contraction gripped me, and I screamed into the empty room, my voice bouncing off the walls, unanswered.

I felt small and helpless.

The next wave of pain was unbearable.

It ripped through me so violently I thought my body would tear apart. I screamed until my throat burned, clutching my stomach as though I could hold the baby in place by sheer will.

My vision blurred, spots of black dancing at the edges, but I refused to let go.

I staggered toward the door, thinking if I could just make it outside, maybe someone would see me.

Maybe someone would help.

But halfway across the room, my legs gave out, and I crumpled to the cold floor, gasping for breath.

The phone lay a few feet away. I crawled toward it, each movement sending shockwaves of agony through my body.

My hand shook as I reached for it again, dialing the only number that mattered to me right there and then.

Voicemail.

Tears streamed down my face as I pressed my forehead against the tiles, whispering, “Please… please don’t leave me. Not like this.”

Every contraction stole another piece of my strength. And then, in a rush of pain so sharp it shattered me, I felt it, I felt life slipping away. My body trembled, my heart breaking even as I tried to cling to hope.

When the silence came, it was heavier than the pain. The room was quiet again, except for my ragged sobs. I knew before I could bring myself to look, before I could even move. I knew what had happened.

I had lost my baby.

My arms were empty.

My body was broken.