"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Anders, isn't your husband picking you up today? He must be overjoyed," a nurse said brightly, her tone full of genuine delight.
I froze, forcing a weak smile to my lips as I lowered my gaze. My fingers curled tightly into my palms, the nails biting into my skin until the color drained from my hands. "He's busy with work today," I murmured. "I can manage on my own."
The nurse nodded sympathetically, but her comment lingered in the air like a taunt. Tristan had been there for every treatment at the start. His presence had been reassuring, his hand steadying me through every injection. The staff had adored him, calling him a "model husband." But somewhere along the way, his visits became sporadic. Then they stopped altogether.
I glanced down at my phone, at the curt message he'd sent earlier: [Team-building event tonight. I'll be home late.]
I wanted to laugh, but the sound wouldn't come. Was it truly work, or just another excuse? My answer came hours later when a coworker's live stream popped up on social media. Tristan's face, so familiar and once so comforting, now twisted the knife deeper. He was seated close to Anya, their heads bent together in private conversation. Every accidental brush of their hands sparked something electric between them, the kind of connection he used to share with me.
I thought I wanted to see again. In that moment, I almost wished for my blindness back. At least then, I wouldn't have to witness the truth.
But there was something more urgent I had to face. My footsteps echoed through the hospital's quiet corridors until I reached the obstetrics and gynecology department. The sterile air prickled at my skin as I sat in the waiting room, tears streaming silently down my cheeks. Hours passed before I finally made my way to the operating table.
"Are you certain you want to go through with this? The procedure carries risks, especially after all you've been through," the doctor said, her voice tinged with concern.
My breath hitched, my resolve faltering for a heartbeat. But then Tristan's cruel words replayed in my mind: "This child is nothing more than a tool to make Anya jealous."
My nails dug into my palms once more, grounding me in the icy reality of my situation. I swallowed hard and nodded.