The Day I Miscarried, He Was Delivering Another Woman’s Baby Chapter 02

The Day I Miscarried, He Was Delivering Another Woman’s Baby Chapter 02

He froze for a second. His face twisted.

“Alessa, you journalists all love blowing small things out of proportion, don’t you? I already told you, it was an accident. Do you really have to be like this?”

“And let’s be real. You’re just doing scheduling and coordination at the station now. You haven’t been a lead correspondent in years. You’re almost thirty. You’re pregnant. Who else would even want you?”

“I’m at the hospital every day until I can’t breathe. I don’t do that so I can come home to you making a scene.”

He headed for the door in a fury.

As he passed the entryway, his eyes caught the edge of a document sticking out of my bag.

A few printed words were visible.

Death Certificate.

He stopped. Looked back at me.

“Who died?”

He was about to pull the papers out when his phone rang.

Tessa’s voice spilled through the receiver, thick with tears.

“Soren, one of the puppies might have inhaled milk wrong. The shop is full of customers and I can’t handle this alone. It’s not going to die, is it? I’m so scared…”

Soren’s face tightened.

“Don’t cry. I’m coming right now.”

He turned and left.

Didn’t even remember to lock the home office. The one room I was never allowed to enter.

I stood there for a moment. Then I walked inside anyway.

On the corner of his desk, my first press pass—the one I’d treasured, framed, and kept pristine—had been ripped out. The frame was gone. The pass lay on the floor under a layer of dust. A clear shoe print marked the surface.

My old journalism credentials.

He’d thrown them on the ground and stepped on them like garbage.

Back then, I was the most promising young journalist at the station. The editorial team assigned me an interview with a retired hospital director.

The old man was famously difficult. He refused to see me.

I kept going back for days. I worked overtime on top of it. Once, my blood sugar crashed and I passed out in his garden.

Soren was the one who lifted me up off the ground.

He said once the old man decided he wouldn’t see someone, no one could change his mind.

I lowered my head and was about to leave. He popped a piece of candy into my mouth.

Then he winked at me.

“But I really like people who work hard. If you can’t interview him, you can interview me.”

I found out later he was one of the most sought-after young surgeons in the city.

Media outlets had been trying to book him for an exclusive for ages. He’d refused all of them. He only gave me the chance.

That was how Soren and I met.

We both got busier after that. One day, he looked at me with a hesitant expression.

“Alessa, I know you want to be the best journalist.”

“But someone has to take care of things at home. Could you switch to a less demanding role? I promise I’ll always be good to you.”

I knew becoming the best surgeon was his goal.

So I stepped back.

I didn’t quit. I just moved from frontline news to a lighter administrative post. At least I was still inside the station. Still close to the work I wanted to do.

On too many sleepless nights, I sat under the lamp, running my fingers over that press pass, just staring at it.

Every time Soren saw me do that, a guilty expression crossed his face. He’d tell me over and over he’d make it up to me.

And now. The pass I’d held onto all this time. Ripped from its frame. Dropped on the floor. A shoe print on it.

I looked at his safe.

The code was Tessa’s birthday.

I opened it. On top sat a thick manila envelope.

Inside were photos of him and Tessa.

Embracing. Kissing. Holding hands on a beach walk.

And receipts. The apartment he bought her. The storefront he rented for her. The money he sank into her business.

Her pet shop bled money every month. He kept pouring more in.

Soren’s handwriting was on the front of the envelope.

“I will always support your dream.”

I looked at it for a long time.

For five years, I had looked after his home. Washed. Cooked. Tracked his schedule. Handled every loose end.

I remembered how it felt every time I saw my former colleagues still out chasing stories, filing copy, pulling all-nighters for their reports. The ache I couldn’t name.

I laughed.

So he did know how to support someone.

He just never gave that support to me.

I photographed everything. Put it all back exactly as it was. Then I called Kate.

“Kate. I heard the news desk is looking for someone to go to the Middle East as a war correspondent. No one’s volunteered. I know this is sudden, but I need to get out of here. Any field assignment. I’ll take it. Alaska reporting on climate change. The Mexico border. I don’t care.”

Kate was silent for a beat. Then her voice turned serious.

“Alessa, walking away from the front line back then was a real loss. I can’t send you straight into an active war zone—that’s not protocol. But I have a short-term assignment covering the migrant crisis at the border. The risk is significant, but it’ll let you prove yourself. If you perform well there, I can push the transfer to a combat zone.”

“Get ready. You leave in a few days.”