Whenever Dwayne faces a situation he can’t resolve, he isolates himself—and me—even knowing I’m still pregnant. This time was no different.
Before leaving the house, he fixed me with a cold, piercing stare and warned:
"Don’t even think about doing anything to harm the child. Let me tell you, even if we divorce, the child must be raised by me!"
The sound of the door slamming shut echoed dully.
With my frail body, I forced myself to stand, walked over to the trash can, retrieved the crumpled report sheet, and carefully smoothed it out, as though trying to piece together my shattered heart.
From the moment Dwayne returned to the moment he left, he never once asked about my abdominal pain or the condition of our unborn child. Not a word about the dozens of missed calls I had made.
All he cared about was whether I was taking the medicine as he demanded.
I sat alone in the vast, empty living room, my eyes reddened once more.
Dwayne, you’ve lost the chance to be a father.
And with it, you’ve lost me, too.
The next day, Dwayne called again, urging me to take the anti-fetal medicine on time.