The burn on my hand throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. The Thomas Gilbert who used to cook for me clumsily—who insisted on making me noodles even after burning his own fingers—was dead.
*"Cooking is too dangerous,"* he had once said, his eyes full of tenderness. *"From now on, let me do it."*
Now, he used the soup I had lovingly stewed to mutilate me.
I looked at the mess of food scattered across the floor and felt like a clown in a tragedy of my own making.
I pulled out my phone and texted the doctor:
*[I'm coming in for the abortion today.]*
The doctor replied instantly, urging me to reconsider. But the image of Thomas and Hazel kissing in the emergency room lobby burned in my mind.
I shook my head, my resolve hardening into ice.
Thomas once claimed he despised public displays of affection. At our wedding, he hadn't even kissed the bride. Yet for Hazel, he was willing to shatter every principle he claimed to hold.
My father had been a cheater. I would not let my child have one, too.
Climbing onto the operating table, my limbs felt heavy, as if filled with lead. When I climbed down, my womb was empty.