Cleo hurriedly left work to accompany me to the hospital for the procedure. Worried that I might catch a chill, she brought a coat and gently placed it over my shoulders, her eyes red with concern. I sensed her hesitation; she wanted to ask something but feared it might upset me. I gave her a reassuring smile.

"I'm not marrying Yusuf," I said. "I refuse to let my child be the reason that ties me to him."

With someone to lean on, my tears finally came. Cleo just held me close, warming my cold hands and heart with her embrace.

The procedure was quick, and soon enough, I was wheeled out. Madelyn helped me out of the hospital and drove me home before hurrying back to work.

As I lay in bed, I picked up my phone and noticed a friend request notification. It was from a girl. Curious, I clicked on her profile. Her cover photo showed a hand entwined with another—a hand that looked all too familiar. It was Yusuf's hand, scarred on the back from the time he tried to cook for me for the first time and got burned by oil.

I remembered him back then, his eyes shining as he watched me taste his dish. I remembered him smiling softly, saying, "As long as you enjoy it, I don't mind the pain."

The girl's latest post showed a bouquet of roses with a jewelry box nestled in the center—inside was a necklace. The caption read, "One-year anniversary." So, it started even before he proposed to me. I only realized it today.

The anesthesia wore off, and a sharp pain pulsed through my lower abdomen, sweat chilling my skin.

Click.

Yusuf returned, changing his shoes as he stepped inside. Holding a bouquet of roses, he entered the bedroom and knelt by my bedside, apology written all over his face.

"Sweetie, the university suddenly gave me an assignment today, and I couldn't get away," he said. "But it's okay, we can check the calendar and find another good day."

When I still didn't respond, he assumed I was upset. "Don't be angry, sweetheart, I brought you a gift to make up for it."

He silently watched me, then handed me the roses and opened the gift box in the middle. It was a necklace—identical to the one in that girl's post.

I suddenly burst into laughter, and seeing Yusuf relax as soon as I started made it all feel so absurd. He joined in with a soft chuckle, leaned closer to me, and said:

"Sweetheart, I'm starving."

Just as he was about to lean in for a kiss, his phone rang. His expression faltered for a second before he quickly composed himself. He touched my belly gently through the covers and gave it a light kiss, saying:

"Don't bother mommy, daddy's got to go make some money for us all."

I grasped his arm, holding onto a last shred of hope, and softly asked, "I’m not feeling well, can’t you stay?"

Yusuf hesitated for a moment, then gently pulled my hand up to his lips, giving it a tender kiss.

"There’s something urgent at the university. They can’t handle it without me."

I searched his eyes, looking for any hint of regret. But there was none.

Yusuf hurriedly put on his coat and rushed out the door, leaving his phone behind in his haste. I knew all his passwords—he never kept secrets from me, so I never felt the need to check his phone.

Out of curiosity, I opened his WhatsApp, finding nothing at first, which made me breathe a small sigh of relief. But then, going against my better judgment, I tapped on the option to switch accounts.

I had never seen this number before. Intrigued, I clicked on it, and there was only one contact—another girl.

Their conversations went back a year and a half. I scrolled through their messages, my hands trembling, one screen after another. Every day, almost without fail.

"There are fireworks tonight for the holiday; want me to pick you up to see them?"

That was during Thanksgiving, when I thought he was working late, so I busied myself preparing a fancy dinner.

"The maid outfit looks great on you; next time I’ll get you something else."

On my birthday, I waited until 2 a.m. for him. Yusuf had come back, drenched in sweat, claiming he rushed back to celebrate with me. I didn’t blame him at all and even threw myself into his arms, but he pushed me away that night.

Now, I finally understood—

He had been with someone else just before coming home to me.

Lost in my thoughts, my phone suddenly buzzed with a friend request. It was from that girl. As soon as I accepted it, two messages popped up.

"I'm scared, professor."

Attached was a picture of a kitchen, messy and soot-blackened.

She retracted the message within the two-minute window, pretending nothing had happened.

Yet, on her social media feed, there was Yusuf again. The kitchen, once chaotic, was now spotless, and there was Yusuf, in his coat, cooking for her.

I dashed into the bathroom and started vomiting, the bile burning my throat. It felt like I was trying to purge every meal he'd ever made for me.

Inside, I felt hollow, a gaping void where my heart used to be, filled with an icy wind.

Yusuf never came home that night.

Last night's sleep was restless, and through the fog of sleep, I heard a loud knocking at the door. Dragging myself to open it, a voice came in even before the person did.

"Madelyn, once you're a mother, you can't sleep in so late," Winifred Carpenter proclaimed as she barged in, quickly surveying the room before making herself comfortable right in the middle of the couch.

"Yusuf is a university professor, always so busy. You need to take good care of him. Once you marry into our family, don't be so lazy," she continued. "To be honest, the only reason you can marry Yusuf is that he likes you so much. Otherwise..." Her eyes swept over me, and she added, "You should be grateful. It's quite the step up for you."

Winifred never missed a chance to belittle me, wanting me to feel indebted to her and her son. Seeing that I neither moved nor acknowledged her, she frowned and added, "No sense of hospitality, eh? Not even a cup of coffee for your future mother-in-law? Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?" She glared at me with her arms crossed, sitting there with a self-satisfied look.

Suddenly, I recalled our first meeting. After Yusuf proposed, he brought me to meet his mother. For our first dinner, she only made three simple dishes. The only meat dish was spiced honey ham, and she deliberately placed a spoonful of the spices directly onto my plate. With a patronizing tone, she said, "We shouldn't waste food; I only made a few dishes."

"And Madelyn, I heard you don’t like strong spices, but being picky isn’t good for your health, especially if you want to have a healthy baby boy."

She watched me expectantly as if I was supposed to eat it all. Yusuf knew I disliked strong spices; from our very first meal together, he would always ensure they were mild. But here, with one swift motion, he piled the stuff he usually avoided back onto my dish. Yusuf remained silent, so I forced a smile and dutifully ate a mouthful, grimacing through the taste. Unable to stomach it, I rushed to the bathroom and threw up.

From outside, his mother shouted loudly, "I don’t want a fussy daughter-in-law. These young women are so fragile these days."

We barely got through the meal. As we left, Yusuf snapped at me. "What’s wrong with eating a bit of spice? Were you trying to embarrass my mom?" His frown softened as he saw my dismay, and he added more gently, "Madelyn, my mom raised me all by herself. Let’s just cut her some slack, okay?"

Despite my discomfort, I swallowed my pride and nodded, figuring we were all going to be one family soon enough. I decided to put in more effort. On Thanksgiving, I chose expensive jewelry and clothes to gift her. During meals, I was the one bustling around the kitchen, preparing elaborate spreads.

Winifred would criticize even as she ate, dismissing my efforts with, "This just isn’t authentic, looks like you didn’t really put your heart into it." She barely touched any dish, and then used her utensils, still wet with saliva, to pick through everything, making it impossible for me to enjoy what I made.

Initially, Yusuf helped with the cooking, but soon enough, he’d only arrive just as I was finishing up. After eating, he'd relax while Winifred fussed over him, saying, "My hard-working son, let me cut some fruit for you." The two of them, mother and son, were perfectly content, leaving the mess for me to clean up alone.

I've had enough of this nonsense. Snapping back to the present, I glared at Winifred. "First of all, I supported Yusuf through his Ph.D. financially. You didn’t contribute a dime."

"We both work, so why should I handle the home and earn money too? He's marrying a wife, not a replacement mother."

"You know I'm pregnant, yet you come to upset me, expecting me to wait on you. Are you paying me to be your family’s maid?"

I let out a torrent of frustrations that had been bottled up for months, and it felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest. I poured myself a glass of water, took a sip to soothe my throat, and turned to her with a smile.

"And my parents did teach me to respect my elders. They just didn’t teach me to respect those who don’t earn it."