What made it even crueler was the irony: Dwayne suffered from asthenozoospermia. For five years, I endured painful ovulation injections to give him this child. In the end, my body was wrecked, and he repaid me with betrayal.
When I was rushed to the hospital, the baby still had a chance to survive. But as I prepared to pay for the miscarriage procedure, I discovered that all the money I had painstakingly saved for the baby was gone.
In a panic, I called Dwayne repeatedly, begging him to come to the hospital. Despite my desperate pleas, he never showed up. My blood soaked the hospital bed as I struggled to breathe, and in the end, the doctors had no choice but to perform an abortion.
One day ago, that card could have saved our child’s life. Now, like our eight-year relationship, it has become nothing more than worthless garbage.
Dwayne, oblivious to my silence, assumed I wouldn’t press the issue any further. He handed me the medicine bottle and said impatiently, “Take the medicine already.”
I didn’t reach for it. Instead, I watched indifferently as the bottle rolled under the sofa, unmoved and unwilling to respond.