It All Ends the Same

While I was five months pregnant, my husband, Randall Harris, accompanied his assistant to the hospital for an IV drip.  

He even posted a selfie with her on social media.  

I called him, and he lied straight to my face, saying he was stuck in a meeting at the office.  

When I confronted him, he fought with me, gave me the cold shoulder, and then went straight back to his assistant for comfort.  

“Are you sure you don’t want to notify the baby’s father? The surgeon asked me. “After this surgery, you won’t ever be able to have children again.” 

I closed my eyes. 

“He’s dead to me.”

The procedure was over quickly, but the pain was far worse than I had anticipated.

I found myself absentmindedly touching my now-flat stomach.

There had been a life once.

The brief bond I shared with this child felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

For five months, I endured my husband’s cold indifference and impatience and Macy Ericson’s smug provocations. Every night, the tension would haunt my dreams, leaving me drenched in cold sweat.

Now, though, it was over.

That tiny life inside me had saved me.

After three days of recovery at the hospital, I was finally discharged.

Yet, as I stepped out, my husband, Randall Harris, was waiting at the entrance. He held a bouquet of champagne roses, my favorite.

The moment he saw me, he draped a coat over my shoulders. "It’s cold out. Why are you dressed so little?"

He offered the roses to me. “Do you like them?”

I knew what he was doing, offering me a way to smooth things over.

It was our unspoken rule: when one of us upset the other, a favorite gift was meant to act as an apology and compensation.

In the past, I would’ve been easy to appease. A simple gesture from Randall and I’d have come running back like a puppy desperate for affection.

However, the sight of him just disgusted me now.

This man didn’t deserve to be my child’s father.

Two weeks ago, he’d invited me to a company party.

When I arrived, I found a crowd of men and women completely drunk, sprawled across the lounge.

Macy was seated comfortably on Randall’s lap, gazing at him with sultry eyes. Their faces were so close their lips nearly touched. The air between them was electric.

The moment they noticed me, the mood shifted. A few people looked away awkwardly, as if my presence had ruined their fun.

Macy immediately scrambled off Randall, avoiding my gaze like a guilty child.

In a fit of rage, I smashed everything in the lounge.

Randall didn’t hesitate. He slapped me across the face and threw me out.

I stumbled down the busy streets, eventually collapsing on the sidewalk. A kind stranger found me and brought me to the hospital.

When I woke up, the doctor said my baby’s condition wasn’t good.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. How could a child conceived in such a loveless, toxic environment ever thrive?

I tried calling Randall, hoping we could talk things through. I called nine times, but no one answered.

On the tenth try, Macy picked up.

“Ms. Nara, Mr. Harris is busy. He’s asked not to be disturbed by anyone.”

She emphasized the word “anyone”.

What kind of wife had to go through her husband’s assistant just to reach him?

I hung up without a word and made an appointment for the abortion.

Macy’s actions didn’t happen in a vacuum. They were with Randall’s full consent.

Together, they robbed me of my child, stole my chance at motherhood, and expected to sweep it all under the rug like nothing ever happened.

Did they really think my child’s life was so insignificant?

I took the bouquet from Randall and threw it into the nearest trash can without hesitation.

“Randall, I don’t want your disgusting flowers.”