After My Husband Killed Our Baby

I stood in the bathroom of our Manhattan apartment and stared at the needle. One thousand. I knew the number because I'd counted every single one. The syringe felt light in my hand. Three years of this and my fingers didn't shake anymore. They used to. The first time, I'd cried before I even broke the skin.

Now I just lifted my shirt and looked at my stomach in the mirror. The bruises formed a constellation across my abdomen—purple, yellow, green. A map of everything I'd given. I found a clean spot near my hip and pushed the needle in. The sting was familiar. Comfortable, almost. I pressed the plunger down and watched the clear liquid disappear into my body.

Philip was still asleep in the bedroom. He never woke up for these anymore. In the beginning, he used to hold my hand. That lasted maybe two weeks.

I pulled the needle out and dropped it in the sharps container under the sink. The container was almost full. I'd need to get a new one soon. I smoothed my shirt down and washed my hands. The water ran cold, then hot. I watched it swirl down the drain.

Then I saw it. The pregnancy test I'd taken yesterday, still sitting on the back of the counter where I'd hidden it behind the tissue box. I picked it up with wet hands. The second line was faint. So faint I'd spent all of yesterday convincing myself I'd imagined it. But it was there. A shadow of a line. Pink against white.

I pressed my palm flat against my stomach. Under the bruises, under the skin. Maybe.

I didn't let myself smile. Not yet. I'd been wrong before. Hoped before. I slipped the test into my coat pocket and left the bathroom.

The apartment was quiet. Fourteen hundred square feet of marble countertops and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Philip's mother had decorated it. Everything was white and gray and cold. I'd asked once if I could add some color. She'd looked at me like I'd suggested setting the curtains on fire.

I made coffee. Drank it black at the kitchen island. The morning light came through the windows and made everything look clean and expensive and empty.

My phone buzzed. A text from Diana, my college friend. *Lunch this week?*

I typed back. *Maybe. I'll let you know.*

I heard Philip's alarm go off in the bedroom. The shower started running a minute later. I poured a second cup of coffee and left it on the counter for him. He liked it with cream and sugar. I used to bring it to him in bed. I stopped doing that about a year ago. He never mentioned it.

I was rinsing my cup when I heard the front door open.

I froze. We weren't expecting anyone. Philip was still in the shower. I dried my hands and walked toward the entryway.

Philip stood just inside the door. He wasn't alone.

Azalea Rivera stood next to him. I recognized her immediately. I'd seen her exactly twice before—once at a charity gala two years ago where she'd smiled at Philip too long, and once in the lobby of his office building when I'd dropped off his forgotten briefcase. Both times, something in my chest had gone tight and cold.

She was holding a baby.

The infant was wrapped in a blue blanket. Tiny face. Sleeping. Azalea's arms cradled him with the careful confidence of someone who'd been doing it for weeks.

I looked at Philip. He met my eyes. His face was calm. Composed. He'd shaved. Put on his good suit. He looked like he was about to give a presentation.

"Leila," he said. My name in his mouth sounded like a business agenda item. "We need to talk."

I couldn't move. My hand was still damp from washing the coffee cup. I could feel the pregnancy test in my coat pocket, hanging by the door. The weight of it.

"This is Azalea," Philip continued. "And this is our son."

Our son. Not *my* son. *Our* son.

Azalea looked at me. Her eyes were wide. Soft. She looked like she might cry. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. "I never wanted—"

"She'll be staying here," Philip said. He cut her off smoothly. "With the baby. You need to accept reality, Leila. This is how things are now."

The apartment was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. I looked at the baby. He had Philip's nose. His chin. Unmistakable.

I looked at Azalea. She bit her lip. A tear slid down her cheek.

I looked at Philip. He was waiting. Expectant. Like he'd just asked me to approve a dinner reservation.

"How long," I said. My voice came out steady. Flat. "How long has this been going on."

"That doesn't matter," Philip said.

The front door opened again. Philip's mother swept in without knocking. She never knocked. Mrs. Scott's gaze went straight past me to the baby in Azalea's arms.

"Oh," she breathed. She crossed the room in four steps. "Let me see him."

Azalea shifted the baby toward her. Mrs. Scott took him with the hunger of someone who'd been waiting years. She looked down at his sleeping face and smiled. It was the warmest expression I'd ever seen on her.

"A Scott family blessing," she murmured. Then she looked at me for the first time. Her eyes were hard. "You'll do what's best for the family, Leila. Won't you."

It wasn't a question.