The cold night wind was biting through my thin clothes. I rested my hand on my belly, where a tiny life—just over a month old—was growing.
"Mrs. Carpinelli, are you sure you want to go through with this?" the nurse, who registered my information, asked gently. I must have looked hesitant and absent-minded because she asked again, "Does the baby's father know?"
"He doesn't need to," I said firmly.
The nurse didn't push further.
After all, hospital staff don't interfere with patients' personal decisions. She'd probably seen plenty of women in my situation—women like me who are unhappy in their marriages.
"Your appointment is scheduled for the day after tomorrow at four in the afternoon. Is that okay?"
I nodded.
As I left, the nurse ran after me with my ID card. "Mrs. Carpinelli! You forgot this! Oh, and… happy birthday!"
I forced a thank you, then returned home in a daze.
As soon as I opened the door, chaos greeted me. Red wine and beer were spilled everywhere, the birthday cake was smashed on the floor, and the "Happy Birthday" sign was stuck under someone's tread patterns.
"Christina, what took you so long?! Hurry up and clean all this mess already!"