Seeing that I refused to listen, they finally left—leaving behind nothing but the sound of my broken sobs echoing through the empty ward.
The next day I lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
A soft knock at the ward door broke the silence. "Sister, I heard you had a miscarriage. I came to see you."
At the doorway stood Patricia, one hand resting lightly on her slightly rounded belly as she studied me with exaggerated concern. Weston hovered beside her, fidgeting nervously.
"Denise, Patricia is pregnant. Please don't be like you were yesterday..." he said, worry heavy in his voice.
My gaze locked on her belly. Patricia seemed startled by my stare and took an involuntary step back.
"Don't scare her," Weston scolded, frowning as he tried to smooth things over.
"Is the baby in her belly yours?" I asked, cold and steady.
For a moment both their faces were drained of color.
"No...of course not…" Weston stammered, his gaze darting away.