Even with the anesthesia, I could still feel it—every bit of life slowly slipping away, leaving a hollow ache. But all I could think about was how the father of this child drove for hours just to deliver a cake to Anya while I was lying in the hospital after my accident, sending him message after message, calling endlessly, and getting not a single word in return.
When I finally managed to get Cedric on the phone, I was desperate, hoping for any bit of comforting words. But I was met by his sharp voice.
"What now? Can't you see I'm busy? Do you think I have time to deal with you all day? I'm driving—stop calling me!"
He hung up before I could even tell him our baby might not make it.
Hours later, I saw Anya's post. It was all sweet, practically flaunting my husband's efforts. The caption and the photo felt like a punch to the gut.
My marriage was really done. So will my abortion. I scheduled it, prepared to let go of the child I had wanted so much but couldn't bring into a loveless family.
Cedric didn't come home until the next night, with his first love by his side, looking stunning as always.