Chapter 3

The search results filled the screen. My thumb hovered there, frozen, unable to press down.

Six weeks. There was still time.

I took a deep breath and switched off the screen.

Not yet. Not while Isabelle's funeral was still happening. Charles was a wreck right now. I couldn't drop this on him like a bomb.

It was not because I pitied him. I simply did not want this to spiral into some ugly public scene.

If he found out about the baby, if he knew what happened that night, what would he see when he looked at me? A schemer? Someone who took advantage of him when he was weak?

He could think whatever he wanted. But I would not let this child be born into that kind of judgment.

*****

Three days later, I went to the hospital alone. I checked in at the front desk and sat down in the waiting area outside the OB-GYN wing. The chairs were hard plastic and uncomfortable.

Around me, women with round bellies filled the seats. Some glowed with that peaceful happiness you see in pregnancy magazines. Others looked pale and exhausted, their hands pressed to their lower backs.

I was the only one there carrying a six-week-old embryo and a plan to end its existence.

"Nancy Warren, Room Three," the nurse called.

I stood up. My legs felt unsteady beneath me.

I pushed open the door to the exam room. The doctor sat at her desk, writing notes. She looked up as I entered. She was in her forties, with sharp eyes and a name tag that read Dr. Zoe Reed, Senior Physician.

"Have a seat. What brings you in today?" she asked.

"I'm six weeks pregnant," I said, lowering myself into the chair across from her.

My voice sounded flat and businesslike, like I was reading from a grocery list. "There are signs of a threatened miscarriage. I want to terminate the pregnancy."

Dr. Reed looked at me for a long moment without speaking. She put on her glasses and opened my file on her computer screen. Age. Medical history. Previous miscarriage.

"You had a spontaneous miscarriage three years ago?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Did you have a full workup afterward? Any tests to find out why?"

"No."

She set down the file and removed her glasses. Her gaze was steady and serious. "Ms. Warren, I want to be straightforward with you.

"Your uterine lining did not heal well after the loss three years ago. The ultrasound shows it's still quite thin.

"If you have a surgical abortion now, it will cause significant trauma. It will make future pregnancies much more difficult."

"I understand," I said.

Dr. Reed paused. "Are you absolutely certain about this? Is the baby your husband's?"

A bitter smile tugged at my lips. "It's mine," I said. "Nobody else is part of this decision."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she opened her drawer and pulled out a pamphlet, sliding it across the desk toward me. The front read Post-Abortion Care and Support.

She said, "I'm ordering an ultrasound and some pre-op blood work for you. But I don't recommend making a choice today.

"Take three days. Think it over at home. If you still want to move forward, come back in three days. That's the hospital policy."

I took the pamphlet and the lab slips. I thanked her and walked out of the room.

In the hallway, a young man walked slowly beside his pregnant wife, his arm wrapped gently around her waist.

He leaned down and whispered something close to her ear. She laughed and reached up to give his earlobe a playful pinch.

I looked away. My fingers tightened around the papers until the edges crumpled and creased.

I walked to the elevator and pressed the down button. The doors slid open. Inside stood a doctor in a white coat, holding a stack of patient charts.

I slipped in and pressed myself into the corner.

The doors began to close. Then a hand shot through the gap, stopping them. "Hold on."

A tall figure squeezed inside. He wore surgical scrubs, his mask pulled down beneath his chin. His face was all sharp angles. Strong brows. Deep-set eyes. A straight nose. His mouth was set in a thin, impatient line.

As he moved past me, his shoulder knocked into mine. Not gently.

The lab slips flew from my hand. They fluttered to the floor like a white moth, landing right at his feet.

"Sorry," he muttered. He bent down to pick up the paper. His eyes skimmed the words without meaning to. Pre-Abortion Examination Request.

His hand paused midair. Then he looked up at my face.

His expression was strange. Not pity. Not disgust. Not curiosity, exactly. It was something heavier. Searching. As if he were trying to place me in a memory he could not quite reach.

"Yours," he said. His voice was low and rough.

"Thanks." I snatched the paper from his hand. The elevator chimed, and the doors opened to the first floor. I hurried out without glancing back.

But I could feel his eyes on me the whole way. The young doctor in scrubs stood frozen in the elevator, his charts pressed to his chest.

Through the narrowing gap of the closing doors, his gaze stayed locked on my thin frame until I disappeared from sight.