After drafting the divorce agreement, I stared at the ceiling, clutching the blood-stained hospital gown, now soaked with my tears. That day, I lost my own child. Yet, while I was drowning in sorrow, my husband lay in someone else’s arms and only returned home early the next morning.
When he arrived, his first action wasn’t to comfort me but to grab the medicine bottle on the table and begin examining it.
When he found out I hadn’t taken the anti-fetal medicine on time, his expression darkened instantly, and he scolded me, "Tricia, how many times do I have to tell you? Your health is poor, and you must take anti-fetal medicine every day!"
With that, Dwayne grabbed the medicine bottle and stormed toward me. I raised my head mechanically, still clutching the barely legible abortion report in my hand. My dry eyes, long emptied of tears, held only exhaustion and sorrow.
His frustration grew when I didn’t reach for the medicine bottle he offered. He snatched the abortion slip from my hand, crumpled it like waste paper, and tossed it into the trash can. In a tone laced with irritation, he continued, "Are you upset because I didn’t take you to the hospital?"