He Streamed My Fifth Abortion For Her Chapter 09

He Streamed My Fifth Abortion For Her Chapter 09

Four months later.

Damien had lost nearly forty pounds. His cheekbones jutted sharply beneath pale skin, and dark circles

hollowed out the space beneath his eyes.

Every time Caleb saw him, he frowned.

But he never said a word.

Everything that needed to be said had already been said. None of it had changed anything.

Over the past four months, Damien had never stopped looking for me.

He just wasn’t searching the way he had during those first desperate days, tearing apart every corner of the

city.

Now he searched quietly.

Alone.

Once a week, he’d drive to the entrance of my mother’s estate. He never walked up to the house or knocked

on the door. He simply sat behind the wheel.

Sometimes for an hour.

Sometimes until sunrise.

My mother spotted his car from her bedroom window more than once. Every time, she’d let out a cold snort

and yank the curtains shut.

He had signed the divorce papers.

He walked away with nothing.

The house, the cars, the savings, every asset we owned, even the credit card that still carried a balance, had all been transferred into my name.

Caleb had delivered the paperwork personally.

[“He said it wasn’t enough. He wanted to know what else you wanted.”]

I never answered.

What else did I want?

I wanted my four children back.

Could he give me that?

At the beginning of September, my due date arrived.

I had settled alone in a quiet Southern town, renting a small one-bedroom apartment about ten minutes from

the hospital.

Every prenatal appointment had gone perfectly.

My baby was healthy.

A little girl.

Because the wall of my uterus had become dangerously thin, my OB-GYN recommended a scheduled

C-section instead of attempting a vaginal delivery.

I signed the consent forms without hesitation.

The morning of the surgery, my mother drove down from home and waited outside the operating room.

As the anesthesia slowly pulled me under, I stared at the bright surgical lights overhead.

Suddenly, I remembered lying beneath lights just like these three years earlier.

Back then…

Damien had been waiting outside.

I had believed he was worried about me.

Now he wasn’t here.

But for the first time…

I wasn’t afraid.

At 11:43 a.m., my daughter entered the world.

Her cry rang through the operating room, loud and strong, filling every corner of the room.

A nurse carried her over to me.

She was tiny.

Her little face was wrinkled, her eyes squeezed shut as she cried with every ounce of strength she had.

My vision blurred instantly.

“Hi, sweetheart…”

My voice cracked so badly I barely recognized it.

Three years.

Four babies lost.

And finally…

One living child.

I reached out and brushed my fingertips against her tiny cheek.

Soft.

Warm.

Real.

She was mine.

No one would ever take her away.

By two that afternoon, I had been moved out of recovery.

My mother sat beside my bed, cradling the baby, her eyes still red from crying.

“Six pounds, thirteen ounces,” she whispered with a smile. “The nurses said she’s absolutely perfect.”

I nodded.

Taking my daughter into my arms, I spent a long time simply looking at her.

Then I picked up my phone.

I snapped a picture of her sleeping peacefully, wrapped in a pink swaddle.

Next, I opened a phone number I hadn’t contacted in four months.

I sent the picture.

Nothing else.

Just the photo.

Three seconds later…

It was marked as read.

Then…

Silence.

The screen repeatedly flashed:

[“Typing…”]

It appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Seven or eight times.

But no message came.

Ten minutes later, a single text finally arrived.

[She looks just like you.]

Only one sentence.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I closed the conversation, flipped my phone facedown on the nightstand, and looked away.

My mother glanced at me.

“Him?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you thinking?”

I lowered my eyes to my daughter.

She let out a tiny yawn, her little mouth opening and closing sleepily.

I smiled faintly.

“I’m not thinking about anything.”

I gently stroked her tiny fingers.

“It’s over.”

My mother didn’t ask another question.

Golden afternoon sunlight streamed through the hospital window, warming my daughter’s face.

She wrinkled her tiny nose…

Then drifted peacefully back to sleep.

Holding her in my arms, I realized those past three years felt like one endless nightmare.

And at last…

I had finally awakened.