Two: I had lost the baby. My baby. The only heartbeat I had been holding on to, hoping it would keep our marriage.
But instead of comfort, instead of support—I got blame. I was sure that it wasn’t even my fault. It was the car that collided with us, but because Patricia told them I had a glass of wine—they thought it was my fault for drunk driving.
“You should’ve let Patricia drive,” Denver had growled at my bedside, eyes burning. “She had a conference to attend for the company. And now look at her? You’ve ruined everything. You just stay at home and do nothing, and then this? What a useless one!”
I remembered blinking up at him, the sterile lights above flickering, and wondering how we had ended up here. When had the man who once held my hand so gently begun to crush it?
And yet, this wasn't the first betrayal. It was just the loudest.
I’d grown up believing love meant giving, bending, sacrificing. I thought if I just gave enough, they’d love me back.