I hurriedly packed my things and drove to my parents' house. As soon as I walked in, they cornered me with a barrage of questions. Mom’s eyes were puffy and red from crying, and even Dad looked shaken, though he tried to mask it.
When I shared the news about Alexander's "sperm donation," Mom pulled me into a tight hug, tears streaming down her face as she sobbed, "I warned you he’d hurt you!"
Dad remained silent, smoking a cigarette, his hand resting on the gun tucked in his waistband. After a long pause, he finally muttered, "Good riddance."
My parents had never liked Alexander. I had pursued him for seven years, and when he finally agreed to date me, I ignored all the warnings, believing I could make him fall in love. I was clearly mistaken.
I learned the hard way that love cannot be forced. A decade of my life taught me that painful truth all too well.
A day later, I saw Alexander pulling into my parents' driveway. He jumped out of the car and stormed over. The men guarding the house moved to stop him, but I waved them off, letting him approach.
"Veronica, what the hell is going on?" He looked me over, his eyes landing on my stomach. "You had a miscarriage? How did this happen?"