The Child I Carried Secretly

Erika Frederick POV: Braden came home more often after that. Every evening, without fail, he' d bring a small gift-a bouquet of my favorite lilies, a new book from a genre I' d mentioned, a box of artisan chocolates. He' d cook, too, meticulously preparing the dishes I loved, the ones that had been staples at our dinner table since our college days. Each aroma, each familiar taste, was a ghost. I remembered us, young and hungry, sharing ramen noodles in our tiny apartment, dreaming of the day we could afford a real steak. He' d always cooked for me then, too, his clumsy hands creating miracles from meager ingredients. Those simple meals were woven into the fabric of our early love, a testament to our shared struggle and eventual success. Now, those same dishes felt like a mockery, a poisonous offering. I couldn' t eat. My stomach, still delicate from the surgery, rebelled at the thought. Kandy was a constant, sharp splinter in my heart. Every time Braden looked at me, touched me, or even just spoke my name, all I could see was her. His hands, once a comfort, now felt like a violation. His voice, once a melody, now grated on my nerves. I hated sharing a room with him, hated the thought of his body next to mine in our bed. But I played my part, the dutiful wife, the grieving partner. I smiled weakly, touched his arm, murmured thank yous. One evening, he raised a glass of wine to me. "To us, Erika. To our future. And thank you, for everything you do." I forced a tight smile, clinking my glass against his. The wine tasted like ash. I drained it in one gulp, needing the burn. He leaned in, trying to kiss me. My stomach lurched. I couldn' t help it. The nausea was overwhelming. I pushed back from the table, stumbling towards the bathroom, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Braden followed, his footsteps heavy. He was there in an instant, holding back my hair, stroking my back. "Erika, what's wrong? Is it your stomach again?" "Just… just a little upset," I gasped, rinsing my mouth. "Too much rich food, I guess. My stomach's still sensitive after the surgery." I knew it was a lie. This sickness was deeper than any physical ailment. It was a visceral rejection of him, of us. He sighed, his hand gently rubbing my back. "I'm so sorry, baby. I hate that you're going through this. All those years, working yourself sick for us..." His voice was thick with what sounded like genuine regret. I pulled away, needing space. Work became my refuge. I buried myself in spreadsheets, client calls, anything to keep my mind from wandering to the abyss that was my marriage. The next day, I had a meeting with a crucial client across town. As I pulled into the parking lot, a familiar sleek black sedan caught my eye. Braden's car. What is he doing here? A strange sense of unease settled over me. He rarely handled this account. Then I saw her. Kandy. She practically flew across the parking lot, her bright pink dress a jarring splash of color against the drab concrete. She launched herself into Braden' s arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. He caught her effortlessly, his face alight with a smile I hadn't seen in years. "Braden, you're here!" she shrieked, her voice high and childish. "I thought you'd never come!" He held her close, his eyes twinkling. "Couldn't stay away from my favorite Sweet Pea, could I?" He kissed her forehead, then her lips, a long, lingering kiss that left no doubt about their relationship. "You're so mean!" she pouted, a theatrical flick of her hair. "You only say you love me once a day now. I need more! I need to hear it every hour!" Braden chuckled, his eyes full of indulgence. "You greedy little thing. You know I only have eyes for you. You're my favorite. My only love." My blood ran cold. My only love. He'd said the same words to me, a hundred times over our decade together. They meant nothing. They were cheap, disposable words. My heart, which I thought had already shattered, found new ways to break. It didn't just feel like a punch; it felt like a complete and utter erasure. I was nothing. "Look at those two," a passerby whispered to their friend, a woman my age. "So young, so in love. He must adore her." I forced a smile, my face stiff. "Excuse me," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Do you know who that young woman is?" The woman shrugged. "Oh, she works for his company, I think. He treats her like a princess. Very sweet." Very sweet. I walked away, the ground swaying beneath me. Braden didn't come home that night. I called, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Again. Later, my phone buzzed. A friend request. From Kandy Romero. Her profile picture was a selfie with Braden, taken in our bed. My blood boiled. I won't give her the satisfaction. I ignored the request. Another buzz, a message from Kandy. He' s in the shower, babe. Don't worry, he' s all mine. I scoffed. What a pathetic, childish attempt to provoke me. I typed a reply, then deleted it. Don't engage, Erika. Don't give her what she wants. Then another message came through. An image. A screenshot. You really don't want to see this, do you? she wrote. Or are you too scared? My thumb hovered over the image. A cold dread, far deeper than any I'd felt before, began to spread through my chest.