After the Rupture, Our Ruins

The night my ex-husband, Oscar Hawthorne, celebrated his wedding to another woman, I, Claire Forrester, called a moving company. Under the cloak of darkness, I emptied the house we had called home for eight years.

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1

At two in the morning, a sharp pain in my lower abdomen jolted me awake. My hand swept across the cold, empty sheets beside me—a stark reminder that my husband, Oscar Hawthorne, hadn't come home again.

The pain intensified, a searing blade twisting inside me. With a trembling hand, I dialed Oscar's number. The phone rang for what felt like an eternity before someone finally answered.

Before I could utter a word, a younger woman's voice cooed through the receiver. "Claire? Oscar's with my mom at the hospital. He's exhausted and already asleep. Let's talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Wait, don't—"

The violent cramps in my abdomen stole my breath, turning every word into a pained gasp.

The woman on the other end chuckled softly, a sound utterly devoid of concern, and disconnected the call.

When I tried again, the phone was off. I gasped for air as wave after wave of excruciating pain wracked my body, sending me into uncontrollable convulsions. Tears streamed down my face.

I didn't want to die. I was only twenty-six. I still had my parents. And I had Oscar—the man I had loved for eight years.

Forcing myself to stay conscious, I dialed 911. Then, I crawled from the bedroom to the living room and unlatched the front door. The last thing I heard before the world went black was the wail of ambulance sirens tearing through the night.

The doctor's diagnosis was swift and brutal: a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. I needed immediate surgery. Hospital policy required them to contact my family, but Oscar's phone remained unreachable.

"Do you have any other relatives or friends we can call?" a young nurse asked sympathetically, her eyes lingering on my ashen face as I lay on the gurney.

I managed a bitter smile and shook my head. My parents were hours away in the small town of Lakewood, Michigan. The earliest flight wouldn't get them to Chicago until the next afternoon. Besides, my mother, Grace Forrester, had a weak heart; this kind of shock could be fatal.

My best friend, Olivia Hayes, lived in the city, but she was in her third trimester and could go into labor any day. I couldn't bear to worry her.

"I can sign for myself," I rasped. "I'll do it alone."

The surgery lasted through the night. When I woke, it was already morning. Faint winter sunlight streamed through the blinds, but it did nothing to dispel the chilling frost that had settled deep in my heart.

Nurse Sarah Jenkins noticed I was awake and hurried over with some warm water, using a cotton swab to moisten my chapped lips.

"Ms. Forrester, you're finally awake. You have no idea how close a call that was. The doctor said the rupture was in a very dangerous location. A few more minutes, and they might not have been able to save you."

I touched my flat lower abdomen, my heart aching with a hollow regret. Oscar and I had been trying to conceive for two years, enduring so much. We had finally succeeded, only for it to almost cost me my life.

I clutched my phone, fresh tears rolling down my cheeks. An entire night had passed without a single call or text from Oscar.

The baby was gone. But its father had to know. I dialed his number again.

This time, he answered.

"Honey, I—"

"Claire, I know I've been neglecting you lately, but I'm just so tired. Eleanor was in and out of the ER all day yesterday. And there's nothing going on between Hedy and me. She's like a sister; she could never threaten your position as Mrs. Hawthorne. Can't you just be mature about this? Stop making a scene."

Oscar's voice was laced with an impatient weariness.

I held the phone, speechless.

After a beat of silence, he pressed on. "Well? What is it this time, Claire?"

"I... ectopic pregnancy..."

Before I could finish, I heard Hedy's anxious, tearful voice in the background.

"Oscar, Mom's blood oxygen is dropping again! The doctor needs you!"

"We'll talk later. I have to go."

Oscar hung up before my words could even register.

I stared blankly at the ceiling, my already raw eyes flooding with tears once more.

Oscar and I had been together for nearly eight years. We met in college, survived four years of long distance, and married two years ago, promising to build a life and a family together.

But in the three months since his childhood sweetheart—his so-called sister, Hedy—had returned with her mother, I had somehow transformed into a jealous, irrational harpy in his eyes.

A strangled laugh bubbled up from my throat. I covered my eyes with my hand, a smile fixed on my lips as the tears refused to stop.