She caught the faint smile tugging at the corner of my lips, something she hadn’t seen in a long time. For reasons she couldn’t explain, her chest tightened.
But she had already promised Knox she'd go with him to pick out a crib.
There was no time to ask who I had been talking to. Maybe she thought it was that cousin who dropped by from time to time. After all, ever since marrying her, I’d been left with no friends of my own.
Snatching up her documents, she turned without looking back and said coolly, "Milo, there’s something at the office. I’ll come again tomorrow."
Tomorrow came and went. So did the day after, and the day after that. But she never showed up.
Instead, through mutual friends, I kept receiving clips of her with Knox.
She brought him to parties, dinners, and high-profile events, like a girl newly in love, eager to parade her man before the world.
The day I was discharged from the hospital, she posted a nine-photo grid on social media.
At sunset, she stood atop a romantic hot air balloon, passionately kissing Knox.
I left a comment. [Wishing you both a lifetime of love and a baby on the way.]
Ten minutes later, she called.
I didn’t pick up.