My Husband Had a One-Year-Old Daughter While I Was Still Pregnant! Oops, Marriage Over Chapter 03

My Husband Had a One-Year-Old Daughter While I Was Still Pregnant! Oops, Marriage Over Chapter 03

The next day, I went to St. Mary’s Women’s Hospital alone.

In the examination room, an older female doctor studied my ultrasound report, her brow furrowed deeply. “Honey, I can see from your chart that you were just treated for a threatened miscarriage not long ago. This pregnancy has not been easy for you.”

The nurse beside her handed me a cup of warm water and spoke gently. “She’s right. You’re in your thirties—if you terminate now, getting pregnant again could be very difficult. Did you have a fight with your husband? Don’t make decisions about your body out of anger.”

Looking at the genuine concern in their eyes, a sharp sting hit the bridge of my nose. I ducked my head and took a quick sip of water, forcing the tears back before they could fall.

“We didn’t fight,” I said, setting the cup down. “We’re getting divorced. Doctor, please schedule the procedure. I’ve made up my mind.”

The doctor sighed but didn’t push any further. She filled out the paperwork.

By the time I got home, it was nearly dark.

I opened the fridge. Inside were the fresh mushrooms and pork ribs I’d bought specifically the day before.

Derek had wrecked his stomach years ago from all those client dinners, drinking whiskey until his insides were raw. No matter how exhausted I was, I used to time his commute down to the minute so I could have a pot of hot, slow-cooked chicken soup waiting for him the moment he walked through the door.

I pulled out a black trash bag. The mushrooms, the ribs, the containers—I swept all of it into the garbage.

Derek came home at seven thirty.

Out of habit, he headed straight for the kitchen. When he didn’t smell the familiar aroma and saw the ingredients tossed in the trash, he paused for a beat, then pushed open the bedroom door.

“Babe, you didn’t cook tonight? Why’d you throw out all that food?” He walked to the edge of the bed and reached for my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? You look really pale.”

I turned my head away from his hand.

“Just tired. Didn’t feel like it.”

“No worries, no worries, you rest. I’ll order something.” He leaned in quickly, tucking the comforter around me, his voice dropping into that soft, soothing tone. “What do you want?”

“Whatever.” I closed my eyes and turned my back to him.

From that day on, I never cooked for him again. Never ironed another one of his shirts.

Every morning he scrambled to find a tie. Every evening he came home to a cold, dark kitchen. It took a few days, but he finally noticed something was off.

He started trying to win me over.

The man who always claimed he had too many work dinners suddenly came home on time, night after night. He’d walk through the door carrying a box from some upscale bakery or a bouquet wrapped in tissue paper and ribbon.

On Friday evening, he came home shockingly early and actually cooked—pan-seared steaks—then wrapped his arms around me from behind as I sat on the couch.

“Babe, what’s been going on with you lately? You’ve seemed so down. Is it because I’ve been too busy and neglecting you?”

He was about to kiss my cheek when his phone on the coffee table started buzzing—sharp, insistent.

He glanced at the screen and his entire expression changed. He snatched the phone and strode out to the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

Two minutes later, he came back wearing a mask of regret.

“Babe, I’m really sorry. The client in Miami just pulled a one-eighty on the deal. The whole project’s about to blow up. I need to fly out tonight.”

“How long?” I looked at him.

“Two days. Three, tops. I’ll be back.” He took my hand in both of his. “I was planning to spend this whole weekend with you. I owe you one, okay? Just stay home and wait for me.”

“Go,” I said, pulling my hand free. “Work comes first.”

Derek threw some clothes into a suitcase and rushed out the door.

Over the next two days, he sent me a steady stream of messages.

[Babe, just landed.]

[Client’s being impossible. Might be an all-nighter. Get some sleep.]

[I’m really sorry. When this is all over, I’ll make it up to you, I promise.]

I watched the notifications pop up one after another. I didn’t reply to a single one. Didn’t even send an emoji.

The following afternoon, I pulled out my phone and scrolled all the way to the bottom of my contacts—to a number I hadn’t dialed in ten years. Ten years of silence, all because of my own stubbornness.

It only rang twice before someone picked up.

“Hello?”

The moment I heard that familiar voice, the dam broke.

“Dad, I want to come home.”