[Sometimes I really wish Delia and Charlie were my family. Charlie's been raised so well. I can't imagine what kind of person our son would've become with you raising him.]
I stared at those final messages for a long time.
Then, slowly, I typed: [Okay.]
I hit send. Without hesitation, I deleted his contact.
The hospital's fluorescent lights were blinding. Clutching the miscarriage report, I walked alone down the corridor toward the room where they kept what remained of my child. I needed to bring him home. Give him a proper burial.
The maternity ward was full of couples. Expectant mothers glowed with joy, their partners hovering close.
I held the small box in my arms, and it felt like my heart had been sealed inside it along with that tiny body.
"James, thank you so much for today." A sweet, honeyed voice cut through the air.
I looked up.
Our eyes met.
James was holding Charlie's hand. Delia clung to his arm.
Standing together, they looked like a real family.
James glanced at me, and his expression shifted. His gaze dropped straight to my flat stomach.
He strode toward me, irritation written across his face. "What are you doing here?"