"Denise," he said at last, tone hard, "I know you're hurting over your loss, but you cannot take it out on a pregnant woman. If this happens again—even though you are my wife—I won't indulge you."
He scooped Patricia up and left. As the door closed, she shot me a triumphant little smile.
She thought she had won. She didn't know how wrong she was.
I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
When the time came, I would make them pay a price they wouldn't forget.
In the days that followed, it was as if they were deliberately punishing me.
Everywhere I turned, I would "accidentally" stumble upon their moments of intimacy—Weston feeding Patricia tenderly, massaging her hands and swollen feet, or gently applying pregnancy oil to her growing belly.
Sometimes, at night, I would hear him whisper stories to the child in her womb—the same stories he used to tell to my unborn baby.
They looked like the perfect, loving couple, eagerly awaiting their child's arrival.
And I...simply watched in silence. Only waiting for the right moment to strike.
I knew Weston kept something in his study—something that could expose everything he had done.
Finally, one day, my opportunity came. Weston had gone out, and the house fell silent.
I slipped quietly into his study, turned on his computer, and began searching.
When I finally found the evidence I needed, I shut the device and turned to leave.
Just as I was about to head back to my room, a faint burnt smell made me stop in my tracks.
I followed it and turned the corner—only to see Patricia standing by the brazier, tossing something into the flames.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, my brows knitting in suspicion.
Patricia turned, her face painted with that sickeningly gentle smile.
"Sister, I know how sad you've been since the miscarriage. I was afraid these baby clothes would make you even sadder, so...I'm helping you let go."
As she spoke, she flicked her wrist and threw the last tiny piece of fabric into the fire.
"No!"
I lunged forward, shoving my hand into the flames, desperate to save what I could. By the time I pulled back, all that remained was a charred scrap of fabric.
After losing my child, those little clothes were all I had left.
Every night, I slept with them beside my pillow. Now, even that last thread of comfort was gone.
I clutched the scorched cloth to my chest, tears falling heavily onto the ashes.