His tone was careful, deliberate, each word dripping with practiced exhaustion. “I wanted to call, but everything was chaos. I barely slept. I kept thinking about you, though. About how I’d make it up to you once I got home.”
I said nothing. His story was airtight, polished smooth by guilt and preparation.
“Rosie,” he murmured, reaching for me. “I’m sorry. You know how much my family means to me. I thought you’d understand.”
“I do,” I said. “Completely.”
He smiled faintly, relieved. He didn’t see the way my hands curled into fists.
“How’s the baby?” he asked suddenly, his gaze flicking to my stomach as if remembering I existed. “You been taking your medicine? Your belly’s still small.”
He reached for me again. I took another step back.
“Don’t touch me,” I said quietly. “I don’t feel well.”
He frowned, calling for the maid, his concern mechanical, dutiful, practiced. When he found out I hadn’t been taking the prenatal medicine, he went straight to the kitchen, performing his role again.
“Come on, baby,” he said when he returned, holding a steaming bowl. “You need this. It’s good for you. You don’t want to suffer later, right?”