Benedict strolled in, smiling carelessly as he brushed the hair from my forehead. "You're awake? Sweetheart, you worked so hard, giving me such a beautiful daughter. Here—a little something for your trouble."
He pressed a small cash gift into my hand. I glanced past him and saw the baby in the bassinet beside the neighboring bed. That was when I realized—Benedict had it wrong. He thought the other woman's baby was mine.
"Benedict, don't you have anything to explain to me?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "Babe, I swear there's nothing between me and Vivian."
"I know you're still upset that she and I had a child together, but she went through labor for my sake. I have to take responsibility for her."
I opened my mouth to speak again, but a pained cry from Vivian's room pulled his attention away.
At the same moment, a nurse walked in carrying a small urn. She frowned, glancing between me and Benedict.
"This is—"
But before she could finish, Benedict was already gone, rushing to Vivian's side. He caught her in his arms and snapped, "Are you out of your mind?!"
"You just gave birth! You can't be getting out of bed by yourself!"
Vivian's eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm sorry, Benedict. I wanted to go apologize to Phoebe. I was so selfish. I just wanted so badly to have a child who looked like your brother, to keep me company..."
Benedict wiped her tears away with unbearable tenderness. "What are you crying for? You're not the other woman. Technically, you're the one on my marriage certificate. Phoebe's the mistress."
In that moment, my heart split open like a wound torn with a dull blade. Tears fell from my eyes, heavy and fat, shattering against the floor.
The day he proposed, Benedict's eyes had held nothing but me.
"Phoebe, marrying you is the greatest blessing of my life. I will never, ever let you down."
Now he was calling me the mistress.
The day I was discharged, Benedict instinctively guided Vivian into the passenger seat.
When he saw me freeze, he offered an explanation. "Phoebe, Vivian's not feeling well, and she gets carsick, so..."
The sticker on the passenger-side window still read "Phoebe's Seat."
The irony was suffocating.
On the drive home, Benedict transferred me $131.40, as if afraid I might be angry. "Phoebe, our daughter's still in the incubator. If you need more money, just say the word. Your husband can afford it."
A metallic taste surged up the back of my throat.