Chapter 2

The next day, I went to my prenatal checkup, but James didn't show up.

He texted me that morning: [Em has an appointment with a therapist. I'm driving her there. Have the driver go with you.]

Laura stared at the message for a moment, then replied: [Okay.]

The driver dropped me off at the hospital entrance and asked, "Mrs. Foster, would you like me to go up with you?"

"No, thanks," I replied.

I handled everything on my own: waiting in line, getting my blood examination results, and sitting around for my ultrasound.

All the other pregnant women around me had their families with them.

Some had their partners supporting their backs, others were being handed water, and a few were anxiously poring over medical reports. They looked more nervous than the moms-to-be themselves.

When it was my turn, the doctor glanced at my belly and asked, "Where's your family?"

"Busy," I replied.

The doctor didn't press further.

As the ultrasound probe pressed against my belly, a blurry little shadow appeared on the screen.

The doctor said, "The baby's heartbeat looks good, but you're having contractions a bit too often. Try to take it easy and keep your stress levels down."

I nodded.

As I was leaving, my phone rang, and it was James.

I thought he was calling to ask about the results.

But when I answered, James said, "Hey, are you done with your checkup? If you're nearby, could you pick up some oatmeal for Em? Her stomach is not feeling great, and she wants the oatmeal from that place you got it last time."

I stood in the hospital hallway, gripping the report in my hand.

The edges of the paper were wrinkled from how tightly I was holding it. "James, I finished my checkup."

"I know," he replied, and he sounded a little impatient. "That's why I was checking if you were finished. The place is right by the hospital, so pick it up on your way home."

I didn't say anything.

He added, "She hasn't eaten much lately. Come on, don't make a big deal out of it."

Didn't make a big deal out of it.

Suddenly, I remembered that in the early stages of pregnancy, when I vomited the most, I wanted to drink a bowl of oatmeal in the middle of the night.

James said the housekeeper could take care of it, so I shouldn't trouble him.

But the housekeeper had the day off.

I had to prop myself up against the wall to cook the oatmeal, and as soon as I served it, I threw up.

James only found out the next day. He frowned and said, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

I did tell him.

But he said he had an early meeting in the morning and went straight to bed.

James was still on the line, waiting for my reply.

I asked, "Why can't she order takeout?"

He paused for a moment. "Laura, you've gotten a lot more temperamental since you got pregnant."

In his mind, it wasn't about me feeling sick. Apparently, I was being moody.

I hung up the phone.

I came home without the oatmeal.

Emily was sitting in the living room, looking pale, while James was fixing her a glass of honey water.

James looked up as I walked in and immediately asked, "Where's the oatmeal?"

"Didn't get it," I said.

He set the glass down with a bit more force. "You know she's feeling awful."

Emily quickly grabbed his arm. "It's fine, James. Laura is pregnant, I shouldn't have bothered her."

She said it was fine, but her tears started falling with perfect timing.

James's eyes got colder when he looked at me. "You never used to be like this."

I looked down and changed my shoes.

What was I like before?

He forgot that I used to feel pain, get exhausted, and wish someone would come pick me up, just once.

Back then, I never said a word.

So he pretended I never felt that way.

I set the report down on the coffee table. "The doctor said I've been having frequent contractions and need to rest."

James glanced at it, his tone softening a bit. "Go get some rest in your room."

Emily asked softly, "Is the baby okay?"

"The baby's fine," I replied.

She let out a sigh of relief. "That's good. Otherwise, I'd feel so guilty."

James patted her shoulder. "It's not your fault."

I stared at his hand.

That hand should've been the one helping me into the hospital, walking me down the hallway, and helping me off the exam table.

But now, it was resting on her shoulder.

That evening, the housekeeper made some oatmeal.

James took a bowl and went into the other room.

I sat at the dining table, staring at the half-bowl of soup left in the pot.

It was already cold.

The housekeeper looked a little embarrassed. "Mrs. Foster, would you like me to warm it up for you?"

"No, thanks," I said.

I picked up the spoon and took a spoonful of soup.

It had no flavor at all.

My phone buzzed.

It was a message from the delivery guy: [The moon lamp has been picked up.]

I stared at the message, and suddenly the whole room felt a lot darker.

*****

That weekend, we were invited back for dinner at the Foster Family Estate.

I really didn't want to go.

But James said, "Mom heard Em was back and made a point to invite her. Don't give her attitude."

I tied my scarf. "I'm not making a face."

He looked at me, as if he were trying to figure out if I was being honest.

In the end, he said, "When we get there, try to be understanding."

Be understanding.

I had been hearing those words for three years.

Back when we first got married, James's mom, Sophie, told me, "James is busy with work. Try to be understanding."

When James forgot our anniversary because of work, he said, "Don't make a scene. Be understanding."

Now that Emily was back in the old room, everyone expected me to suck it up and be understanding.

When we arrived at the Foster Family Estate, Sophie took Emily's hand, looking at her with the tenderness that someone would show their own child.

"You've gotten so thin. Did you have a hard time out there?" she asked.

Emily managed a weak smile. "I'm okay, really. Glad to be home."

Sophie sighed, "Now that you're back, don't leave again. There will always be a place for you here with James."

I lingered nearby and, without thinking, pressed my hand to my stomach.

James heard it, but he stayed silent.