Chapter 3

When I came downstairs on Wednesday morning, Maren was boiling coffee in the kitchen.

She was wearing my silk bathrobe.

That was an anniversary gift Silas gave me last year, light purple, with my initials embroidered on the collar.

She turned around holding a coffee cup, and upon seeing me, her hand trembled slightly, spilling a bit of coffee.

"Elaine, you're awake. I saw this bathrobe hanging by the bathroom door, so I grabbed it to throw over myself."

She lowered her head, her fingers twisting the bathrobe belt, "I'm sorry, I'll change out of it right away."

I looked at the bathrobe on her body; the exquisite embroidery on the collar was something I had custom-ordered, originally belonging exclusively to Silas and me.

"Never mind." I turned and walked toward the dining room.

On the dining table were three breakfast sets—fried eggs, toasted bread, and a cup of warm milk placed separately in front of Jasper's seat.

Silas sat at the head of the table reading the newspaper, raising his eyes to chime in casually, "Maren got up early and helped make breakfast, you don't need to labor yourself getting up early every day anymore."

A chill struck my heart.

For eight years, every morning's breakfast had been prepared by me with my own hands; I knew all his dietary preferences by heart. This daily routine that belonged exclusively to the two of us was now effortlessly replaced by an outsider.

Jasper clattered down the stairs, throwing himself straight into Silas's arms, chattering away to share his dream from the night before.

Silas smiled as he lifted the boy onto his chair, carefully spreading jam and cutting toast for him.

The sunlight fell on their clinging figures, piecing together a complete picture of a family of three, while I was merely a redundant bystander.

In the morning, the community parent-child workshop called, inviting me to attend Saturday's expectant mothers' pregnancy preparation sharing session.

I had signed up half a month in advance, full of anticipation to communicate with peers who were also preparing to nurture new life, and had originally planned to drag Silas along.

On Saturday, I waited at the workshop entrance for half an hour, only to be met with a photo sent by my best friend Layla.

In the picture, Silas was accompanying Maren and Jasper standing in the garden, the three of them posing intimately, while the community account caption directly referred to them as a family.

I dialed Silas's phone, the background full of children's laughter and Maren's soft talking.

"Where are you?"

"Taking Jasper out for some fresh air, he's been cooped up at home for too long. Is something wrong?" His tone was flat.

"Today is the pregnancy preparation sharing session I reserved, I thought you would accompany me." My voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.

A sign of impatient exhaustion came from the other end of the phone.

"It's just a sharing session, there will be countless times in the future. It's Jasper's first time out participating in a collective activity, I couldn't rest easy and had to go along."

In his heart, my pregnancy preparation plan of many years could always take a back seat, and Maren and her son's needs always ranked first.

I silently hung up the phone and left the workshop alone.

Returning to the villa late at night, Maren was accompanying Jasper in drawing pictures in the living room, while Silas sat to the side handling documents, occasionally pacifying the boy gently.

I went upstairs alone into the study, closing the door to shut out the warm illusion outside.

Sitting at the desk, hesitating for a long time, I dialed the doctor's phone, "Hello, I'd like to cancel all upcoming pregnancy preparation medical appointments and temporarily give up the plan to have a child."

After listening to the doctor's repeated warnings about the reproductive risks of losing stem cells, I calmly finalized the cancellation procedure.

After hanging up the phone, the tears I had suppressed for so long finally fell.

Not long after, the study door was pushed open, and Silas came in to look for a missing trust document.

His peripheral vision swept across my phone screen, catching a blur of the words "treatment cancelled."

His brow furrowed slightly as he casually tossed out a light, breezy reprimand, "Don't impulsively cancel all conditioning checkups, there's no need to torture yourself."

With those words falling, he picked up the document and left directly, never pausing for even a second to ask me the reason.

The instant the door closed, I sat in the pitch-black study and laughed mockingly at myself.

He always only made subjective assumptions, never willing to quiet down and listen to my hardships.