When My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Unborn Child

The flowers arrived on a Tuesday.

I was sitting on the floor of my new apartment—not new, really, just new to me—surrounded by paint samples. Eggshell. Linen. Something called 'Whisper White' that looked identical to the other two. The knock startled me. I wasn't expecting anyone. I hadn't given the address to anyone.

The delivery guy held a massive arrangement. Roses. White ones. The kind that cost two hundred dollars and say absolutely nothing.

'Freya Shaw?'

I signed. Closed the door. Set the vase on the kitchen counter and pulled the card.

*When you're done with this, come home. We'll talk. —G*

I read it twice. Then I checked my phone. He'd texted the same thing an hour ago. I'd seen it. Hadn't opened it.

I looked at the flowers. They were the exact arrangement he sent his secretary every April. I knew because I'd ordered them for him three years running before he finally saved the florist's number himself.

I picked up the vase. Walked it to the trash chute in the hallway. Dumped it. Went back inside.

Then I called a locksmith.

He came that afternoon. Changed the deadbolt and the handle. Gave me three new keys. I put one in my wallet. One in my purse. One in the kitchen drawer.

I didn't cry. I just stood there looking at the new lock until the light through the window went orange and then gray.

---

Three weeks later, I collapsed at a coffee shop in Brooklyn.

I'd been feeling off all morning. Dizzy. A low ache I kept ignoring. I told myself it was exhaustion. I'd been sleeping four hours a night, working freelance gigs on my laptop at odd hours, eating toast for dinner. I was fine. I was always fine.

I was standing in line when the floor tilted.

I remember reaching for the counter. Missing. Someone caught me before I hit the ground.

After that, it was sirens and fluorescent lights and a paramedic asking me questions I couldn't quite hear. They loaded me into an ambulance. I tried to say I didn't need this. That I could take a cab. But my voice came out wrong.

The ER smelled like disinfectant and burnt coffee. They put me in a bed with thin curtains. Hooked me to an IV. A doctor came. Asked about my medical history. I told her about the miscarriage. Eight weeks. Seven weeks ago now. She nodded. Wrote something down. Left.

I stared at the ceiling. Counted the tiles. Forty-two. Just like last time.

I didn't hear him arrive.

But I heard his voice in the hallway. Low. Urgent. Talking to someone.

'—just need to know if she's okay. I'm her husband.'

'Sir, unless she's listed you as an emergency contact—'

'I'm her *husband*.'

I closed my eyes.

Then I heard the doctor. The attending. She was talking to a nurse just outside the curtain. She didn't know I could hear.

'—prior pregnancy loss at eight weeks, so we need to make sure there's no retained tissue. The cramping and hemorrhaging are consistent with—'

Silence.

Then footsteps. Fast. Someone moving.

The curtain snapped open.

Gideon stood there. His face was white. His hair was a mess, like he'd been running his hands through it. He stared at me. Then at the IV in my arm. Then back at me.

'Freya.'

I looked at him. I didn't say anything.

'Is it true?' His voice cracked. 'Were you pregnant?'

I didn't blink.

'Freya. *Please*.'

'You left me on the highway.' My voice came out flat. Empty. 'In the rain. To go to her. I lost our child alone. There is nothing left for you to know.'

He stepped closer. Reached for my hand.

I pulled it back.

'Don't.'

'Freya, I didn't—I didn't know—'

'You didn't ask.'

He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes were red.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'God, Freya, I'm so—'

'Nurse,' I said.

A woman appeared at the curtain. Young. Efficient. She looked between us.

'Can you remove him, please?'

Gideon's face twisted. 'Freya—'

'Sir,' the nurse said. Her voice was firm. 'You need to leave.'

'I just need to—'

'Now.'

He stood there. Staring at me. Waiting for something. I don't know what. Forgiveness. Permission. A crack in the wall.

I gave him nothing.

Finally, he turned. Walked out.

I lay back against the pillow. The nurse adjusted my IV.

'You okay?' she asked quietly.

I nodded.

She didn't believe me. But she didn't push.

After she left, I stared at the ceiling again. Forty-two tiles. I'd counted them the first time in this same hospital. The night I lost the baby. The night no one came.

I'd counted them until the sun came up.

Now I counted them again.

Somewhere outside, Gideon was standing in the hallway. I knew because I could hear him. Not the words. Just the sound. Low. Broken.

He stayed there for twenty minutes.

Then he left.

And I kept counting.