I later learned I'd been unconscious for two days and a night.
I reached for my phone. The call log was empty. The only activity was in my message thread with Ivan—a few cold texts, all sent that morning.
[Remember to go to the courthouse in three days. Divorce.]
[Still not answering me? You think ignoring this will make it go away? Stella, this divorce is happening whether you like it or not.]
[Sometimes I really wish Glenda and Cooper were my real family. Cooper is so well-behaved. I can't even imagine what kind of child our son would turn into with you raising him.]
I stared at that last message for a long time. Then, slowly, I typed: [Okay.]
I hit send. Without a second of hesitation, I deleted him from my contacts.
The fluorescent lights in the hospital were blinding. Clutching the miscarriage report, I walked alone down the corridor to collect what remained of my child.
The maternity ward was full of couples. Every expectant mother glowed with joy, their partners hovering close.
I held the small box in both hands. My heart felt as though it had been sealed inside along with that tiny body.