The dial tone echoed through the corridor. After a long moment, my father ground out through clenched teeth: "Proceed with the surgery. Her husband is dead to me. Any problems, I'll take responsibility. I'll sign whatever needs signing."
Cold anesthetic crept into my veins. My eyelids grew heavier, but my body felt lighter and lighter, as if it might float away.
When I woke again, I lay still for a moment, lost. My hand drifted to my stomach. Just an hour ago, there had been a tiny life here, connected to me by blood and bone.
Now there was nothing.
"Linda."
My mother watched me with worried eyes. I managed a weak smile. "Mom, I'm okay."
I learned later that I'd been unconscious for two days and a night.
I reached for my phone. The call log was empty. Only my chat with James showed any activity—a few cold messages.
All sent this morning.
[Don't forget—three days from now, civil affairs office. Divorce.]
[Still not responding? You think ignoring me will change anything? Linda, this divorce is happening whether you like it or not.]