“The baby is gone and we have to accept that. Now, focus on getting better. We can always try for another.”
I glanced at him, suppressing the overwhelming anger and sadness within me. Pulling my hand away, I stared at the miscarriage report in my lap, unable to stop the tears.
He wiped them away with false tenderness, offering more meaningless comfort.
If it were in the past, I might have cried in his arms. But now, I couldn’t even stand looking into his face. His full of deceit face.
The truth was, my sudden miscarriage was his doing.
He had drugged the pregnancy soup meant to protect our baby. He poisoned it, ensuring I wouldn’t carry this child to term.
I didn’t know this at first. But last night, as I writhed in unbearable pain and was rushed to the hospital for an induced abortion, I overheard his angry phone call in the hallway.
It was past two in the morning. I had just undergone the procedure when I heard him yelling on the phone in the stairwell outside my hospital room.
He was speaking to Lori Braun, the mistress he had been secretly supporting.
“Didn’t you say that drug would cause Charity to miscarry without her noticing? Then why did she end up in the ER writhing in pain?”