Zoraya cooked for Zeus. They ate together, drank together, walked together. I was a ghost in my own home. More like a maid who cleaned up after their happiness, their laughter, their stolen moments.
Then she started dragging me into their little bubble.
“Can you come to the OB appointment with us?” she asked one day, all innocent eyes and honeyed words.
Zeus added, “It’s important. Savannah needs to bond with the baby now.”
I wanted to scream at them both. But instead, I went. And at the clinic, the doctor congratulated Zoraya, all smiles and good news.
She pretended to cry, those crocodile tears dripping down her cheeks, acting like this was some miracle.
I was frozen. Watching them—the way Zeus looked at her like she was the world. Like I was a shadow disappearing in the background.
Later, back at the apartment, Zeus handed me a bottle of prenatal vitamins.
“Make sure she takes these on time,” he said, voice low and steady. “She forgets sometimes.”
I accepted the bottle with a bitter smile.
Then I looked him in the eye.
“Will you be happy if I’m gone forever?”
His face didn’t change. No flicker of emotion.