Chapter 3

The on-call pager always seemed to ring at the most "perfect" moments. One after another, slowly chipping away at my patience.

As the days dragged on, whenever his work phone buzzed, I knew exactly who it was.

Late-night follow-ups about her medication reactions.

Emergency pages before dawn for a panic attack.

Even on the rare nights we stayed in for a nice home-cooked dinner, the phone would ring right on cue.

At first, he would decline the calls. Then, he started stepping aside, keeping his voice low to soothe her.

Eventually, he started grabbing his ID badge and rushing to the hospital, claiming every time that it was protocol. That his hands were tied.

He always had a set of excuses. If I questioned him, I was the one who seemed cold and unreasonable.

"Morgan flagged her as a high-risk patient. Initial intake follow-ups are standard crisis intervention."

"I'm just trying to transition her properly. It'll be over soon."

"Grace, she has no family. If there's a real suicide risk, as her primary attending, I can't just ignore it."

I didn't know when it happened, but my fear and anxiety had somehow become proof of my lack of empathy.

"I know this is hard to accept. But she is in an active crisis. As her initial intake doctor, I can't turn a blind eye."

He looked exhausted.

But what hurt more was the sheer disappointment in his eyes when he looked at me.

To him, empathy meant I had to be the one making sacrifices. Every single time.

My morning sickness grew worse.

Every morning, I curled over the bathroom sink, retching until my stomach was entirely empty.

The doctor said stress would exacerbate the symptoms.

Alexander looked guilty, but beneath the guilt was an undeniable layer of irritation.

Later, he suggested we go to Chelsea to see an art exhibition I had been looking forward to.

We had barely stepped into the gallery when his phone went off again.

He glanced at it and hit decline, but his expression instantly shifted.

"Sophie again?" I asked.

"On-call line."

He wouldn't meet my eyes. The phone kept vibrating relentlessly in his hand.

Finally, he stepped aside and answered. It was the crisis intervention hotline. As he listened, he went dead pale.

"...Tell security to lock down roof access. Keep the crisis intervention team on standby. I'm the primary attending, I'm en route."

He rushed back to me, his face ashen.

"Grace, we have to go. Sophie climbed onto the roof of the inpatient building. Security and the crisis intervention team are deployed. Protocol dictates I have to be on site."

I opened my mouth, and my voice sounded so foreign I barely recognized it.

"So every time she makes a phone call, she gets to blow up my entire life?"

He clawed at his hair.

"This is the last time, I swear. Once I handle this, it's completely done. Never again."

Without looking back, he turned and sprinted toward the parking garage.

I stood alone on the bustling Manhattan sidewalk as the crowd streamed past me.

A faint, gentle flutter rippled through my womb. I reached down, pressing my hand against my stomach.

At that exact moment, I finally broke. I stood there and sobbed.

I didn't hesitate anymore. I dialed Dr. Morgan's number. I just wanted to know the truth about Sophie's condition.

Dr. Morgan sounded utterly confused.

"Sophie is actively resisting treatment, yes, but clinically speaking, her condition has been relatively stable."

"From my observations, the severe crises she's describing to Alexander simply haven't happened."

The phone nearly slipped from my hand.

Even if I didn't do it for myself, for the sake of my baby, I could not stay in this relationship.