At first, I wondered if he was thinking of someone else. But over time, I convinced myself otherwise. I welcomed those moments, allowing myself to bask in the scent of alcohol on him, the warmth of his presence. He would give me small gestures of romance now and then. On holidays, he would sweet-talk both our parents.
Sometimes, he would stand in my parents' house, his arm wrapped around my waist, saying, "Don’t worry, Mom and Dad. Karen is wonderful. Marrying her was one of the best decisions I ever made."
Even if I always suspected it was an act, those words made me believe, even for a fleeting moment, that maybe—just maybe—fate was tying us together for life. Even if we weren’t lovers, we were family. But he had been so ruthless. So heartless, watching me take birth control pills for three years without a word.
If my bestfriend hadn’t discovered the truth, I would have kept taking them, never knowing.
His hand trembled as he held the report, his gaze clouded. His voice was barely more than a whisper, "I was afraid you’d be sad."
"I won’t give them to you anymore."
Two short sentences. No apology. No remorse.