“The miscarriage was traumatic,” she continued, glancing at my chart. “Your hormone levels are still stabilizing. Stress is a major factor. You need to give yourself time before trying again.”
I let my shoulders slump, burying my face in my hands. I forced a sob to shudder through my chest. It wasn't hard. The grief for my baby was real, a constant ache in my bones, even if the performance for my husband was calculated.
“Oh, Maureen,” Brandon cooed instantly. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispered, kissing the top of my head. “Don’t cry. We have time. We have all the time in the world.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll make sure she rests. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”
“She’s lucky to have you,” Dr. Evans said with a warm smile.
I squeezed my eyes shut against his shirt. Lucky. That word again. If only she knew that the man holding me was the reason I was so stressed, the reason my body was rejecting the very idea of bringing another life into this house.
That evening, the performance continued at the Miller family estate.
“So,” Brandon’s mother said, cutting into her steak with surgical precision. “What did the doctor say? When can we expect an heir?”
I stared at my plate, pushing a pea around with my fork.
“Mother,” Brandon said, his voice warning.
“It’s a valid question,” his father grunted. “The terms of the trust are clear, Brandon. A stable marriage. A family. Your grandfather wants to see a great-grandchild before he passes. If there’s no baby…” He let the sentence trail off, the threat of disinheritance hanging in the air.
“We are trying,” Brandon said, reaching over to squeeze my hand on the table. His grip was tight, almost painful. “But Maureen needs time. She lost a child. We both did.”
“Time is money,” his mother sniffed. “And frankly, Maureen, you’re not getting any younger. Perhaps if you hadn’t been so careless with the first one—”
“Enough!” Brandon slammed his hand on the table. “You will not speak to her like that,” Brandon said, his voice shaking with righteous anger. He stood up, glaring at his parents. “I don’t care about the inheritance. I don’t care about the money. I care about my wife. If you pressure her one more time, we are leaving.”
He looked at me, his eyes filled with a fierce, protective fire. “Are you okay, Mo?”
“Thank you,” I whispered, squeezing his hand back. “I’m okay.”