Last Flight Home

"For the sake of these five years and for this unexpected child."

My own voice sounded exhausted beyond words.

"Clara, this is the last time."

Under my parents' disappointed gaze–eyes filled with frustration that I still refused to learn my lesson–I followed her back to Northwood City.

On the plane, she clutched my hand tightly, as if afraid of losing a treasure she only just regained.

However, as I looked out at the endless sea of clouds, my heart felt strangely hollow.

This forgiveness was a gamble.

What I was risking was the last shred of hope I left–and the life of an innocent child.

…

During the first two weeks after we returned to Northwood City, Clara was unusually careful.

She took over all the housework, came home from work on time, and reported every little detail of her day.

She bought pregnancy guides and books about prenatal education. At night, she would sit against the headboard, gently stroking her still-flat stomach while reading stories in the same soft, reassuring voice she used with her therapy patients.

"Our baby will be the happiest child in the world."

Her eyes sparkled when she said it, just like they used to.

However, shadows have a way of lingering.

Strange phone numbers began appearing on her phone–missed calls from unfamiliar numbers.

She would glance at them, hang up irritably, then block the number.

"Probably him calling from different numbers again. He just won't leave me alone."

That was her explanation, though a flicker in her eyes betrayed something she could not quite hide.

Then came the requests from anonymous social media accounts.

The verification messages were painfully emotional:

"Dr. Miller, I know I shouldn't disturb your happiness. But without you, my world is gray. I can't even pick up a paintbrush anymore."

She rejected the request right in front of me. But her finger lingered on the words for a moment longer than necessary.

One day, after we finished her prenatal checkup–the baby was healthy, the heartbeat strong–I tried to let myself sink into the fragile joy of becoming a father.

Holding her hand, I walked with her out of the hospital.

Her phone rang again.

It was Dr. Hayes, Adrian's new attending physician.

"Dr. Miller, sorry to bother you. Adrian is strongly resisting treatment. He mentioned some details about his childhood abuse, things that only you know. It's crucial for the diagnosis. Could you possibly–"

Clara stepped aside and lowered her voice, speaking for a long time.

When she came back, her brows were tightly furrowed, and her expression strained.

"Work trouble?" I asked, the faint joy in my chest already clouded over.

"Yeah. Just a small issue."

She tried to put an arm around me, but her movements were stiff.

That night, I woke up thirsty.

Her side of the bed was empty.

A faint light glowed in the living room.

Clara sat on the sofa, staring at her phone screen. One hand gently stroked her stomach, her face pale in the cold glow of the display.

On the screen was Adrian's anonymous Facebook account.

Ten minutes earlier, he posted:

[If the care you gave me was fake, then what was all that warmth before? Maybe the world would be better if everything just went dark.]

She was so absorbed in it that she did not notice me approaching.

At that moment, a memory surfaced.

Back in our junior year of college, when I had severe gastroenteritis–vomiting and barely able to stand–she stayed beside me like this all night, refusing to sleep.

Now, the sorrow she was watching over belonged to another man.

A heavy unease began to coil inside my chest.

…

Adrian's condition unfolded like a carefully scripted play.

Scene after scene, each one pushing the limits of what I could endure.

Clara's phone became an alarm that rang only for him. And every time it rang, it seemed to drain a little more strength from her.

Late one night, Adrian had a severe reaction to his medication and was struggling to breathe.

Clara took the call and spent nearly an hour soothing him in a quiet voice.

When she finally hung up, her face was pale.

A dull pain pulsed faintly in her lower abdomen.