The ceramic burned my fingers, but a chill spread through my chest, freezing my heart inch by inch.
How many years had it been since he looked at me with that kind of tenderness?
I set the dish on the table with a clatter. "Eat."
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind me, the dam broke. Tears streamed down my face, hot and fast.
Three years ago, I was pregnant. I worked myself to the bone and lost the baby to exhaustion.
Back then, Thomas had held me, whispering, "The child isn't important. You are the most important thing to me."
Because of that sentence—*isn't important*—I had endured three years of ovulation shots and swallowed countless hormone pills. My legs had swollen until I could barely walk.
Yesterday, two pink lines had finally appeared on the test.
Today, I discovered my husband was cheating.
A knock disrupted my grief. Thomas squeezed into the room. Seeing my red, swollen eyes, he let out a long, exaggerated sigh and lifted the corner of his shirt to wipe my tears.
Just like always, when I was wronged, he hugged me from behind. His buzz cut grazed my neck, stubble scratching my sensitive skin.