James's voice cut through, cold and harsh. "Linda, how much longer are you going to drag this out?"
"Even if I can't divorce you while you're pregnant, the moment that baby is born, I'm filing immediately."
"And let's be real—raising a child costs money. You've done nothing but sit at home since we got married. Eating my food. Spending my money. All you do is a little housework. That's it."
"No one's going to want a woman who just gave birth and comes with a brat attached. You have no income, no prospects. When the time comes, you won't get to keep the child. You won't get to keep me. You'll have nothing."
Every word dripped with contempt. He reduced everything I'd given to this marriage—every sacrifice, every exhausting day—to nothing. And he called my baby a brat.
It felt like a blade dragging across my heart, slicing it open all over again.
"James." My voice came out quiet, steady.
He went silent on the other end.
"I agree to the divorce."
A pause. Then his tone shifted, bright with barely contained excitement. "Really? Great. Let's do it in five days."
His voice softened, turning almost coaxing. "Linda, don't worry. I just want to take care of Delia and her child. I won't cross any lines."
"Focus on your health. Have the baby safely. I'll come visit you and the child once a month."
"I've already bought so many clothes for the baby. I even picked out a name..."
He sounded almost giddy. But my mind was already drifting, detaching from his words.
In that moment, I knew I had truly let him go.
A soft chime broke through the haze. A text notification.
My gaze dropped to the screen.
Dear Ms. Hayward, your abortion procedure is scheduled for three days from now.
That night, I drifted into a hazy sleep.
Suddenly, I found myself standing in a frozen wasteland. The blizzard raged with terrifying force, the cold cutting straight to my bones. My whole body went rigid, and just as I was about to collapse, a gentle warmth spread from my belly. A soft, childlike voice called out beside my ear: "Mommy..."
I trembled, instinctively reaching to embrace it.
The little orb of light was so small—I could hold it completely in both hands—yet it was so warm. So warm that tears nearly spilled from my eyes.
"I'm sorry..."
I whispered the apology, and then tiny, warm fingers gently wiped the tears from my face.
The child's voice was impossibly tender, filled with infinite longing and reluctance to part.