The phone rang, sharp and insistent. I answered mechanically.
James's voice cut through, cold and harsh. "Linda, how much longer are you going to drag this out?"
"Even if I can't divorce you while you're pregnant, the moment that baby is born, I'm filing immediately."
"And let's be real—raising a child costs money. You've done nothing but sit at home since we got married. Eating my food. Spending my money. All you do is a little housework. That's it."
"No one's going to want a woman who just gave birth and comes with a brat attached. You have no income, no prospects. When the time comes, you won't get to keep the child. You won't get to keep me. You'll have nothing."
Every word dripped with contempt. He reduced everything I'd given to this marriage—every sacrifice, every exhausting day—to nothing. And he called my baby a brat.
It felt like a blade dragging across my heart, slicing it open all over again.
"James." My voice came out quiet, steady.
He went silent on the other end.
"I agree to the divorce."
A pause. Then his tone shifted, bright with barely contained excitement. "Really? Great. Let's do it in five days."