But I couldn't hear a single word of it.
I dug my nails into my palm, staring blankly at the wine glass in front of me. "When?"
"What?"
"I said when did you see Elaine at the hospital."
Mick knew no amount of explaining would help now. He pulled out his phone and checked his shift schedule. "Last Sunday, around two. I was just switching shifts."
"She came alone."
It lined up.
Last Sunday was our wedding anniversary. That evening, around the second half of the night, I'd called her.
She said she was on a business trip and probably wouldn't be back until Wednesday.
So her "business trip" was sneaking off to terminate the pregnancy. Wednesday was when she'd be discharged.
A bitter ache surged through me, squeezing my heart until it hurt to breathe.
Elaine and I had dated for ten years before tying the knot. Six years of marriage. For all six of those years, we'd been trying for a baby.
She used to cup my face in her hands and say, "Charles, I want so badly to have a baby that looks just like you."
"But why can't we ever get pregnant?"
Over those six years, we'd been to every hospital, run every test. Neither of us had any issues.
And still, no baby.