Every part of me ached, yet he simply turned his back. "I’ll send someone to pick up emergency contraceptives. You’re not fit to carry a child; a Collins child isn’t yours to bear."
I remembered his words from years past. "When it’s our child, you’ll be the one to bring them into the world. Those pills are too harmful; I forbid you to take them, do you understand?"
Ten years ago, he’d been all gentle and charming, his kisses like a spring breeze, warm with the honesty and passion of youth.
We had weathered the seven-year itch, only to falter at the weight of suspicion and wounds left unspoken.
By the eighth year of our marriage, Javier had begun to doubt me, questioning my fidelity.
"Natasha, tell me the truth. If you don’t, I’ll make sure this baby is gone,” he demanded coldly.
Though I was already pregnant, he called it “nothing but a stain,” saying, “Keeping it will only disgrace the Collins name.”
My first child had slipped away from me just like that.
The grief was crushing. But two weeks later, a hospital check-up twisted the knife deeper.
My hands shook as I clutched the results, unable to believe my eyes. How could this even be possible?
How could I possibly be pregnant again?
