Chapter 1
I kept the secret from my husband and went to the hospital alone.
Registration, checkups—I handled the whole process by myself.
On the operating table, the doctor asked, "Why don't you want this baby?"
With my eyes rimmed in red, I said, "My husband doesn't care about me. I don't want another tether in this marriage."
The doctor fell silent for a moment, then slowly pulled down his mask.
That face... I had known it for four long years.
It was my husband.
He stared at me in a daze, his lips trembling, but no words came out.
*****
I checked in at seven in the morning.
Mark didn't know.
He'd been on the night shift with his phone silenced; when I left with my bag, he wasn't back yet.
The hallway of the OB-GYN clinic was long, bathed in a sterile, sickly white light.
Among the expectant mothers waiting for their numbers, some scrolled through their phones, while others were supported by their husbands, whispering as if about something precious.
I sat in the corner, clutching a lab report in my hand.
I'd seen the two lines on the pregnancy test three days ago.
Two lines—positive.
I had stood in the bathroom for a long time, staring at those lines, feeling absolutely nothing.
It wasn't that I felt nothing.
It was that in that moment, I knew with chilling certainty that if I told Mark, he'd just frown and say, "Take care of this first. I'm too busy with my project."
That was just his style.
Brief, precise, and devoid of emotion.
We'd been married for four years.
He was a surgeon, and I was an elementary school teacher.
When we first met, I thought he was steady and reliable.
After marriage, I realized that "steady" meant he always had more important things to do.
The intercom crackled with a call.
I stood up and walked into the consultation room.
The doctor was masked, head down, scanning my report. He asked some routine questions—weeks of pregnancy, physical condition, any surgical history.
I answered each one, my voice as flat as a textbook.
Then he looked up and asked the final question.
"Why don't you want this child?"
I froze for a second.
That question wasn't part of the standard protocol.
I looked at him, and my nose suddenly stung.
"My husband doesn't care for me," I said.
"I don't want another tether in this marriage."
Once the words were out, I bowed my head, and tears splashed onto the back of my hand.
The room fell silent for several seconds.
Then I heard a faint rustle.
It was the sound of a mask being removed.
I looked up to see that face.
High bridge of the nose, thin lips, and a small mole on the left side of his chin.
I had known him for four years.
Mark Evans.
He stared at me, looking utterly lost.
His lips moved, but no words came out.
The light in the room was still that same sickly white.
We just stared at each other like that.
I suddenly felt that this room was as small as a cage.
I don't know how much time passed.
It could have been three seconds, or maybe three minutes.
Mark spoke first.
"What are you doing here?"
It wasn't a question.
It was a flat statement with a voice tightened by tension.
I said nothing.
I was thinking about how strange that question was.
He should have asked, "Why did you come alone?" or "When did you find out?" or even just "Are you okay?"
But he asked, "What are you doing here?"
As if I had trespassed into his domain.
I placed the lab report on the desk, my voice remaining level.
"I checked in like any other patient."
Mark stared at the report and fell silent for a moment.
He didn't reach for it.
"When did you find out?"
"Three days ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I looked at him.
"Tell you? And then what?"
He didn't answer.
Because he knew the answer.
We both did.
When my mother was hospitalized last year, I called him, and he said, "You handle it. My surgery schedule is full."
Two years ago, I had a fever of 102 degrees. He was on call at the hospital, so I took an Uber to a clinic by myself. I was on an IV drip until midnight, and he just sent a text asking, "Feeling better?"
Feeling better?
Two words.
I replied with a simple "Yeah."
He didn't write back.
Four years of marriage had taught me one thing.
My problems weren't his problems.
So this time, I hadn't told him.
Mark stood up, walked around the desk, and stopped in front of me.
He was nearly eight inches taller than me, standing there like a wall.
"We aren't doing the surgery."
I looked up at him.
"You don't have the right to make that decision," I said.
He winced.
"Emily, that's my child."
"It is."
I nodded.
"But it's inside my body."
There was a knock at the door.
A nurse came in to say the next patient was waiting.
Mark turned and said, "Give us a moment," in his professional voice. Then he turned back, his voice dropping low.
"Go home for now. We'll talk when I get off work."
I picked up my bag and stood up.
"There's nothing to talk about," I said.
"You asked why I didn't tell you, and I've already given you the answer."
I walked to the door and paused, without looking back.
"Mark, think about it. In these past four years, have you ever actually cared about me?"
Then I opened the door and walked out.
The hallway lights were still that same sterile, sickly white.
I walked slowly, my hand clutching the bag strap.
There were no footsteps chasing after me, as expected.