I was seven months pregnant, but my husband Ethan kept making detours every day to drive his female coworker to work. “Just take an Uber to the office yourself. Charlotte doesn’t drive, and the subway is inconvenient for her. I need to give her a ride.” Watching him rush out the door yet again to pick her up, I blocked his way: “Is a coworker really more important than the safety of me and our baby?” Ethan’s face showed irritation: “She’s the CEO’s niece. I can’t afford to offend her. It’s not like I’m not giving you money for an Uber. Can’t you just be understanding about my situation?” My morning sickness, my swelling, my sleepless nights—who cared about my difficulties? In a fit of anger, with my belly protruding, I went straight to his company lobby and made an announcement over the PA system: “Miss Charlotte, hello. I’m Ethan’s wife.” “He’s been picking you up and dropping you off every day, making my commute in the third trimester extremely difficult. Could you please be considerate and get to work on your own?” 1 The moment the words landed, the lobby fell into dead silence. Ethan burst out of the elevator and grabbed my wrist: “Victoria, what the hell are you doing?” I gasped at the pain but didn’t struggle. Charlotte followed behind him. When she saw me, her eyelashes trembled, and her eyes instantly reddened. “Ethan, is this because of me?” “This has nothing to do with you.” Ethan didn’t even turn around, just stared at me intently. “You go upstairs first.” “But she…” Charlotte took half a step forward with a fake apology. “I’m sorry, this is all my fault.” “Had enough of the performance?” I cut her off. “Every morning at seven, he makes a twenty-minute detour to pick you up. I ask him to come with me to prenatal appointments, and he says he needs to take you to meet clients. Now you cry a few tears, and he thinks I’m the one causing problems. Charlotte, don’t you have any shame?” Someone in the crowd gasped. Ethan’s face turned livid: “Victoria! Charlotte is the niece of the CEO, Mr. Harrison. Taking care of her is Mr. Harrison’s instruction! Can’t you be reasonable?” “Did Mr. Harrison tell you to pick her up and drop her off every day?” I shot back with a smile. “Did Mr. Harrison tell you to change your phone password to her birthday? Did Mr. Harrison tell you to get her perfume on your shirt collar?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He couldn’t speak. Charlotte’s tears fell one by one onto the floor: “Victoria, you’ve misunderstood. Ethan and I are completely innocent…” “Innocent?” I pulled out photos from my bag and threw them at Ethan’s chest. The photos scattered all over the floor. Screenshots from the dashcam, with time and location, crystal clear. Charlotte in the passenger seat, smiling like a flower. “These past three months, you’ve picked her up and dropped her off sixty-seven times.” My voice was calm. “Twenty-three of those times, you stayed parked in front of her building for over half an hour. The longest was two hours and seven minutes. Ethan, tell me, what were you two talking about in the car all that time?” Dead silence. Ethan stared at the photos, his lips trembling. Charlotte suddenly rushed over and grabbed my arm: “Victoria, please don’t do this.” I shook off her hand—not with much force, but she dramatically fell backward, screaming as she hit the floor. “Victoria, what are you doing!” Ethan rushed over to help her up, his eyes looking like he wanted to kill me. Charlotte leaned against him, tears streaming down her face: “Don’t blame Victoria. I just didn’t stand steady.” Watching this scene, I suddenly laughed out loud. “Nice performance.” I clapped. “But unfortunately…” Before I could finish, Ethan suddenly let go of Charlotte and stepped right in front of me. “Slap!” The crisp sound of the slap echoed through the lobby. I froze, my cheek burning with pain. Shocked exclamations came from all around. “Have you caused enough trouble!” he roared, his eyes bloodshot. “Are you not satisfied until you’ve destroyed my career!” My ears were ringing, and the world seemed to lose all sound in that moment. I looked at his furious face—that face that once smiled at me tenderly—and suddenly it felt so unfamiliar. Tears finally broke free, not from the pain, but because my heart had died. The elevator doors opened. I walked in and pressed the close button. In the final second, I saw Ethan holding Charlotte, looking at me with complicated eyes. As the elevator descended, the person in the mirror had bloodshot eyes. I told myself, hold on, Victoria. For the baby’s sake, just hold on a little longer. Once she’s safely born, we’ll leave. Leave forever. My phone buzzed. Ethan had transferred $5,000 with the note: Stop making a scene. Come home. I accepted it. Since I couldn’t get love, I might as well get money. Walking out of the building, the sunlight was blinding. I raised my hand to shield my eyes and suddenly remembered many years ago. He rode his bike carrying me through the shade of plane trees. The wind was gentle, and he said: “Victoria, I’ll always be good to you.” Forever turned out to be so short. 2 After that day, Ethan stopped picking up and dropping off Charlotte—at least not in ways that I knew about. We rarely spoke, like strangers living under the same roof. I focused on preparing the hospital bag, organizing baby supplies, scheduling prenatal checkups. Every kick from the baby made me more determined to leave. Until that night. Ethan stumbled onto the bed reeking of alcohol. The strong smell of liquor mixed with unfamiliar perfume made me nauseous. “Ethan,” I pushed him, “go take a shower.” He mumbled an “mm-hmm” but didn’t move. I turned on the light to wake him, but my gaze froze on his neck. A small, fresh red mark. My mind went blank for a few seconds. I reached out, my fingertip touching that patch of skin—it was still warm. The touch woke Ethan. He opened his eyes groggily: “What…” “What’s this?” My voice was trembling. He touched his neck in confusion, then his whole body stiffened. The alcohol had worn off. He sat up abruptly, his eyes darting around. “It’s a mosquito bite!” “Mosquitoes in winter?” I questioned shakily. “Ethan, your eyes drift to the right when you lie.” His mouth opened, but no sound came out. “Was it Charlotte?” I asked with terrifying calmness. “No!” He grabbed my hand urgently. “Victoria, listen to me. Tonight Mr. Harrison hosted a birthday party. I drank too much, and when she helped me, it was an accident.” “An accident that left such an intense mark?” “It really was an accident!” His eyes reddened. “I swear, you’re the only one in my heart. Please believe me…” I looked into his eyes, full of panic and guilt, but no honesty. Seven years. I knew him too well. “Let’s get divorced,” I said. He froze like someone had hit pause, staring at me motionlessly. After a long time, he finally squeezed out words: “What… did you say?” “I said, let’s get divorced.” I enunciated each word. “Are you crazy!” He grabbed my shoulders. “Just because of a mark? Victoria, Charlotte and I have nothing going on! I drive her to and from work, accompany her to business events—it’s all for work!” “So you let her leave her mark on your neck?” I laughed. “Ethan, are you treating me like a fool, or yourself?” “Then what do you want me to do!” He suddenly shouted, eyes bloodshot. “Get on my knees and apologize? Write a guarantee? Victoria, I’m tired enough of acting like a doormat at work—you’re going to push me at home too?” So my waiting, my patience, enduring morning sickness and prenatal checkups alone—all of that was me pushing him. “Fine,” I nodded, throwing off the covers to get out of bed. “Then I won’t push anymore.” The moment my feet touched the floor, my lower abdomen suddenly tightened, like a hand viciously twisting my insides. I let out a muffled groan and had to lean against the wall to keep from collapsing. “What’s wrong?” Ethan finally noticed something was off. “Nothing.” I gritted my teeth. “I won’t die.” But the pain grew fiercer. I bent over, my forehead pressed against the cold wall. “Victoria!” Ethan rushed over to support me. “Why is your face so pale?” His phone rang at that moment. Charlotte’s name flashed glaringly on the screen. He glanced at it, then at me, his fingers trembling slightly. “Answer it,” I said through the pain. “Maybe she also has a stomachache and needs you to take her to the hospital.” “Don’t be like this…” He held his phone, at a loss. When the phone rang for the third time, he finally answered: “Hello? What’s wrong?” “Don’t cry, speak slowly… You fell? How bad is it? Okay, I’ll be right there.” He turned to look at me, his expression conflicted: “Charlotte fell down the stairs. Her leg might be fractured. She lives alone…” “Go ahead,” I cut him off. “She’s more important than me and the baby. I know.” “That’s not what I mean! Wait for me, I’ll take her to the hospital and come right back…” “Don’t bother.” I looked into his eyes. “Ethan, we’re done.” 3 He stood there, looking at me, then at his phone. Finally he said: “Wait for me half an hour. I’ll be right back to take you to the hospital!” He rushed out the door, didn’t even change his shoes. The security door slammed shut with a “bang” that shook the entire place. I slid down the wall to sit on the floor as warm liquid gushed out between my legs. My phone had fallen into the corner earlier. I crawled over and shakily dialed 91
Another wave of intense pain hit, my vision went dark, and the phone slipped from my hand. All I could hear was my own hoarse cry for help: “Save me… and my baby…” The ambulance siren tore through the silence of the early morning. When they lifted me onto the stretcher, everything beneath me was already soaked. The contractions came in waves, as if trying to tear me apart. The nurse pushed the gurney at full speed, the wheels screeching against the floor. “Family! Where’s the family!” the nurse shouted as she ran. I opened my mouth but couldn’t make a sound. The delivery room doors opened and closed. I was moved onto the operating table, my legs raised. After the examination, the doctor’s face grew grave: “The cervix is dilating too fast. Premature birth. The fetus is too small. We need family to sign the surgical consent form!” “I’ll… sign it myself…” My consciousness was fading from the pain, but my hand desperately clutched the doctor’s sleeve. “That won’t work. It must be immediate family!” The nurse panicked. “Where’s your husband? Phone number!” They retrieved Ethan’s number from my broken phone. The long dial tone, then his lowered voice: “Victoria? I’m in the ER. Charlotte has a fracture and needs surgery. I can’t leave…” “This is the maternity ward!” the nurse interrupted him. “Your wife is having a premature birth with severe hemorrhaging. She needs immediate surgery! Please come sign the papers right now!” A few seconds of silence, then he said: “I… I really can’t leave right now. Charlotte also needs a family member to sign, and her uncle hasn’t arrived yet…” “Can Victoria sign herself?” The nurse froze and looked at me. I closed my eyes, my voice ice cold: “Tell him to go to hell.” The call ended. I took the consent form and pen, my hand shaking too much to write. The nurse held my hand and guided it stroke by stroke to write “Victoria.” The surgical lights came on, so bright they made me cry. “She’s out!” the doctor called. No crying. My heart jumped to my throat. A few seconds later, a weak cry sounded. “It’s a girl. Premature. She’s going to the ICU.” The nurse brought the baby to my face. “Take a look.” She was so tiny, all wrinkled, eyes closed, her little mouth quivering as she cried. I reached out, my fingertip just touching her warm skin before she was carried away. “Baby…” I called out hoarsely. The incubator door closed, shutting out all sound. I spent two hours of post-op observation alone in the recovery room. As the anesthesia wore off, the incision burned with pain. The door opened. Ethan rushed in, hair disheveled, eyes red. “Victoria!” He lunged to the bedside trying to grab my hand. “I’m sorry, I came too late…” I pulled my hand away and looked at him. He’d changed clothes, but the red mark on his neck was still there. “Is her surgery done?” I asked quietly. He stiffened and nodded: “Yeah. Her uncle arrived, so I rushed over… Where’s the baby?” “Incubator.” I said. “Premature. Lungs underdeveloped. She might not survive.” His face instantly turned deathly pale: “How could… what did the doctor say?” “The doctor said family needed to sign.” I looked into his eyes. “But you couldn’t sign earlier, could you?” “Victoria, I didn’t mean…” “Ethan,” I interrupted him. “Do you know what I was thinking when my water broke?” He shook his head, tears falling. “I was thinking,” I said slowly, “if I died today, would you regret choosing to take her to the hospital instead of me.” “Don’t say that…” He choked up. “You won’t die, and neither will the baby…” “But we already did die.” I turned to look at the ceiling. “From the moment you rushed out that door, the Victoria who loved you for seven years died.” The nurse came in to wheel me to the ward. Ethan tried to follow but was stopped at the door. “Family members need to handle admission procedures,” the nurse said coldly. He stood there bewildered, at a loss. On the seventh day, the baby was taken off the respirator. The nurse said it was good news, but seeing the IV catheter in her little wrist, my heart still ached. That afternoon, Ethan came. He stood outside the glass looking in for ten minutes, then said to me: “I’ve thought of a name. Let’s call her Lily.” “Her last name is Morgan,” I said. He froze: “What?” “Her name is Hope Morgan. Nickname Hope.” I repeated. “My daughter. She takes my last name.” “You really want to do this?” He frowned. “The child belongs to both of us.” “She belongs to me alone.” I cut him off. “Did you sign the papers? Were you there during the surgery? How much time have you spent with her these seven days?” He was speechless. I handed him the divorce agreement: “Sign it. I get custody, you pay child support, and we split the assets fifty-fifty.”
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