But now watching his face contort with blame and anger, it was as if those moments had been erased, as if wanting Emma had been some elaborate deception I’d maintained for 6 months.
I painted her nursery, I said, my voice barely audible. I bought her socks.
Ryan’s laugh was sharp and bitter. Performance art. All of it. You were playing house until reality hit. And then you, the kick came without warning.
His dress shoe, Italian leather, polished that morning for a client meeting he’d never made it to, connected with my ribs just below my left breast. The impact drove the air from my lungs and sent fire shooting through my already damaged core. I curled instinctively, protective arms wrapping around the emptiness where Emma should have been.
Ryan.
The scream tore from my throat, raw and desperate, but he was already reaching into his briefcase, pulling out a manila folder with the practiced deficiency of a man who’d been planning this moment. Divorce papers scattered across the coffee table like oversized confetti, legal language swimming before my pain blurred vision.
I had these drawn up last month, he said, his voice eerily calm now. After I saw how you looked at Sophia’s baby shower photos, I knew then what kind of person you really were.
The papers landed on top of the blood spreading across the white leather. Some cosmic joke. My marriage ending in the same scarlet stain as my pregnancy.
Get out. His voice was cold now. Business-like. Tonight, I can’t even look at you.
Victoria finally released my shoulders, stepping back as if she’d completed some necessary task. There’s a suitcase in the hallway closet, she said helpfully. Take only what you came with.
But I couldn’t stand. Every movement sent fresh waves of cramping through my abdomen, and the bleeding had intensified. The hospital pad was useless now, overwhelmed by a flow that felt endless and wrong. I needed medical attention, needed someone to check if this was normal. Needed pain medication and clean clothes.
And I said, “Get out.”
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