[Look at you—it’s not even your first time being a father, yet just to make our son call you ‘daddy’ a few more times, you built him an entire playground?]
I remembered when I gave birth to my daughter—it was difficult labor, and Anthony was only two streets away, having dinner with a client.
I thought I was going to die.
Terrified, I called him, begging him to come see me just once.
All I got was his cold reply, “Diana, it’s just childbirth. Every woman has to go through it. Even if I come, I can’t help you give birth. I don’t like doing this kind of pointless, ceremonial stuff."
"You’ll be fine. Be strong. I’ll bring you a gift when I get back.”
Upstairs, laughter spilled down the walls—birthday songs, the clinking of glasses.
The sound pierced my chest like needles.
Whenever our daughter wanted Anthony to celebrate her birthday with her, he would push her away with the same cold dismissal.
“I’m busy with work. You’re six years old already. You should be mature enough not to bother adults all the time.”
Love or the absence of it—it was that obvious.
I didn’t know when Anthony came home that night.