Now, I had become my mother's stand-in, the family's punching bag, stripped of dignity and purpose. But I had made up my mind: none of it mattered anymore. Not Anya's taunts, not Tristan's empty words, nor the nights spent listening to him love someone else.
I stayed silent, playing the part of a blind woman flawlessly. Words stuck in my throat like a knot I couldn't untangle.
The next morning, Tristan seemed unusually attentive. Perhaps guilt tugged at him, or maybe he sensed the growing distance between us. As I sipped my tea at the breakfast table, he suddenly spoke, his tone lighter than usual.
"Zara, let's go to the hospital today for your prenatal check-up. I'll take you myself." His eyes searched mine with uncharacteristic intensity.
My hand instinctively rested on my flat stomach. The weight of the truth I hadn't shared pressed heavily on me. This was my chance to tell him that the baby was gone, that I had chosen to end it.
But under his expectant gaze, I hesitated. "Okay," I said softly, my voice barely audible.