Seven Months Pregnant When I was Diagnosed with Cancer

“The cancer is spreading faster than expected,” the doctor said, her voice soft, almost rehearsed. “It’s aggressive. It’s sitting dangerously close to your uterus. Carrying the pregnancy to full term could endanger not only your life, but the baby’s as well.”

I didn’t move. I just stared at her, the white walls behind her fading into a blur.

“You’re at seven months,” she continued, gently placing a file on the table. “If we terminate now, we can begin immediate treatment. The earlier we act, the higher your chances. But it’s your choice, Valerie. You still have time to think about it.”

I nodded blankly, like a puppet being dismissed from stage. My hands found my belly, feeling the quiet movement of the child still growing inside me. My baby. My only reason to breathe right now.

I left the room like I was floating. The hospital corridors were quiet, cold. I reached for my phone with shaking fingers and dialed the one number I never wanted to call again—but still always did.

Harold. My husband. The man who hadn’t shown up for a single check-up, not one scan, not one late-night panic call. But maybe today would be different. Maybe a cancer diagnosis was enough to bring him back to reality.

The phone rang. And rang.

And then, he picked up. “Yeah?”

“Harold…” My voice cracked. “I’m sick. It’s serious and it might affect the baby. I… I need you to come. We have to talk. The doctor said I might have to choose between the baby and—”

“Baby and you? Well, you choose the baby, then. It’s easy,” he cut in flatly. “Handle it yourself. I’m busy.”

And then he hung up. Just like that. No pause. No questions. No breath between my fear and his dismissal.

I stood there in the corridor, phone pressed to my ear, even though the call had ended. The silence on the other end felt heavier than any noise.

I turned around to leave, my legs barely moving, when I heard a laugh—familiar, sharp.

I paused, heart thudding. It was Harold’s voice, then Taylor—his mistress.

I stepped closer to the hallway where the sound came from. Just enough to hear them but not be seen.

“What? She’s sick? Seriously?” Taylor scoffed. “That same tired drama again just to get your attention?”

“She always pulls that crap,” Harold muttered. “She probably read it on the internet. Honestly, if she really is sick, good. Solves a lot of our problems.”

A beat of silence. Then Taylor asked, “You’re not gonna leave me for her, are you?”

He laughed—cold, easy. “Of course not. I married her for one reason. Business. She’s the biological daughter. Her family’s company? That inheritance? All tied to her name. But once it merges under mine… I’m out.”

My stomach clenched.

“She’s a placeholder. You’re the one I want,” he murmured. “You’ve always been the one.”

Taylor let out a small, satisfied laugh. “And what if she finds out I’m pregnant?”

“We keep playing the game,” Harold replied. “Smile, act like I still care. Whatever. It won’t be long.”

Then the door beside them opened. I backed into the wall, barely breathing.

“Three months along,” I heard the doctor say. “Everything looks great. Congratulations, Taylor.”

I felt my stomach twist in nausea, the hospital lights above blurring into spinning halos. My mouth filled with acid as my knees buckled, and I rushed to the corner and vomited into the trash bin.

I should’ve stayed. I should’ve told the doctor I needed a room.

But I couldn’t stay here—not in the same building as the man who wished me dead, and the woman who ruined everything.

Taylor. The girl my biological parents raised. The girl they adopted when they thought I had died.

There was a fire at our old house, my nanny had kidnapped me after that. She asked for a ransom. However, she died before they ever found out where I was. I ended up in foster care, bounced around, forgotten—until the nanny’s daughter confessed what happened and the truth came out.

I went home. But nothing was ever the same.

They never let Taylor leave, said we could be sisters. She pretended to love me, to want to reconnect. All while sleeping with my husband. The same man who swore he married me for love, when it was always about the money.

I stepped outside into the hospital parking lot, dragging my body like dead weight, holding my belly.

As I reached the sidewalk, I heard an engine. Looked up.

Harold’s car. Fast. Too fast. I lifted a hand, unsure if it was a wave or a warning.

Then the headlights flared. The bumper hit me before I even screamed.

My body slammed against the pavement. Pain exploded through every nerve. I gasped, my vision swimming in red and black.

Everything was spinning. My head. My stomach. My baby.

Then I heard their voices.

“Oh my god!” Taylor shrieked. “I didn’t mean to—I lost control! I didn’t see her—what do we do?!”

“She’s bleeding,” she cried. “She’s not moving!”

Harold’s voice was calm. Too calm. “Don’t look. You’ll get sick with the blood. We should leave now.”

“What?! We can’t just leave—”

“She’s knocked out. Someone will help her. It’s a hospital,” he said coldly. “Come on. Let’s go buy baby clothes.”

That was the last thing I heard before everything faded to black.