While I Lost Our Baby, My Husband Chose His Student

The ambulance ride was all sirens and sharp turns.

I sat beside Gerald on the narrow bench seat, holding his hand. His skin was cold and papery. His breathing came in short, uneven pulls. The paramedic across from me adjusted the oxygen mask and checked the monitors strapped to Gerald's chest. Numbers flashed. Beeps filled the small space.

"You're going to be fine," I told Gerald. I kept my voice low and steady. "Camden's on his way. He'll meet us there."

Gerald's eyes were closed. I didn't know if he heard me.

I squeezed his hand. "You're going to be fine."

The ambulance lurched left. My stomach turned. Twelve weeks. I pressed my free hand against my abdomen and breathed through my nose.

The paramedic glanced at me. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I said.

We pulled up to the Mount Sinai emergency entrance. The back doors swung open. Cold air rushed in. They wheeled Gerald out fast, and I followed, half-jogging to keep up. The automatic doors slid open. Fluorescent lights. Disinfectant smell. A nurse met us in the hallway and started asking questions I only half-understood.

"Are you family?"

"Daughter-in-law," I said. "My husband is his son. He's—he's on his way."

They took Gerald through a set of double doors. A nurse pointed me toward the waiting room.

I sat down in a plastic chair. Pulled out my phone. Called Camden.

Six rings. Voicemail.

I hung up. Tried again.

Six rings. Voicemail.

I left another message. "Camden, please. Your father is in the ER. I need you to call me back."

I set the phone on my lap. Stared at the screen.

Nothing.

I called the departmental secretary's emergency line. A recorded message picked up. I pressed zero. Waited. A tired voice answered.

"NYU Faculty Services."

"Hi, I'm trying to reach my husband. He's attending a symposium in Boston this week. Camden Hoffman. Can you confirm the location?"

A pause. Keys clicking.

"I don't see any faculty symposium registered in Boston this week."

My chest tightened. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am. No events listed."

"Thank you," I said.

I hung up. Sat very still.

No symposium.

I called Camden again.

Voicemail.

I called eleven more times over the next two hours. I counted each one. By 3 AM, I had called twenty-three times.

He did not answer once.

---

At 7:14 AM, the waiting room doors opened.

Camden walked in.

He was wearing a shirt I'd never seen before. Dark blue. The collar had a faint crease along the edge, like it had been folded in a bag overnight. His hair was damp. He smelled like airport soap.

He stopped when he saw me.

I stood up. My legs were stiff from sitting. My back ached.

Camden's eyes narrowed. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

I didn't answer right away. I just looked at him. At the shirt. At the crease. At the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

"There was no symposium in Boston," I said.

His jaw tightened. "What?"

"I called the faculty office. There's no event registered this week."

"Alaya—"

"Where were you?"

He exhaled sharply. Ran a hand through his hair. "This is not the time."

"Your father almost died last night."

"I know that."

"I called you twenty-three times."

"My phone was off."

"For twelve hours?"

He stepped closer. His voice dropped. "You're being irrational."

"Chicago," I said. "You were in Chicago. With Meilani."

His expression didn't change. Not guilt. Not shame. Just irritation.

"This is what I'm talking about," he said. "You're spiraling. Your hormones are making you—"

"Don't," I said. My voice was louder than I meant it to be. A nurse at the desk looked up. "Don't tell me this is hormones. I saw the bracelet. I read the texts. She told me herself. She said you were going to Chicago for a concert."

Camden's face went hard. "You talked to her?"

"She invited me to coffee."

"Jesus Christ, Alaya."

"She showed me the messages, Camden. *She doesn't understand me the way you do.* That's what you said. I have it written down."

His hands curled into fists at his sides. "You're making this into something it's not."

"Your father was dying, and you were at a concert."

"He's fine!"

"He's not fine! And you weren't here!"

Camden moved fast. One step forward. His hand came up. He shoved me. Hard. Right at the center of my chest.

I stumbled backward. My spine hit something sharp and cold. The window ledge. Metal edge. Pain exploded across my lower back.

I went down.

The floor was cold. Linoleum. My vision blurred. There was wetness between my legs. Warm. Spreading.

I heard voices. Running footsteps.

Someone knelt beside me. A nurse. "Ma'am, can you hear me?"

I tried to speak. Nothing came out.

"She's bleeding," someone said. "Get a gurney. Now."

I turned my head. Camden was still standing there. Staring. His face was white.

I closed my eyes.

And I felt something inside me break that had nothing to do with my body.