At that moment, it felt as if I had fallen into the freezing lake again. My heart turned cold, so cold it hurt.
The baby in my belly couldn’t be saved either. It had been a test-tube baby, one I had begged Max for, after enduring hundreds of injections, and because of his indifference, it was gone forever.
On the third day of my hospital stay, Max finally came. He sat in the chair with his legs crossed, his face showing not a hint of concern, and began to criticize me.
“Why didn’t you wear gloves that day? You know I’m allergic to women. Good intentions that cause harm are just foolishness.”
His eyes shifted to the miscarriage report beside me, calm and distant.
“If the child was that weak, it only means he wasn’t fit to survive in this world. It’s better that he’s gone.”
My hands gripped the white bedsheet so tightly that it wrinkled beneath my fingers. He had never looked forward to this child; the only one who truly cared was me.
I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and asked quietly, “Why did you hold that sign language interpreter? Weren’t you afraid of being allergic?”
For a moment, Max froze, and a flicker of emotion passed through his usually calm eyes.