In front of everyone.”
“I told the truth.” His thumb moved across the screen in aggressive swipes. “You have been unbearable.”
There it was again. That word.
As if I were a burden to be endured, not the woman carrying his children. As if this pregnancy was something I was doing to him, not for us. “I’m growing your babies,” I whispered, the words feeling fragile and small.
“My baby,” he corrected absently. “And you’re being dramatic about it.”
Baby. Singular.
I pressed my hands to my belly, feeling the two distinct, tiny patterns of movement within. The ultrasound from three weeks ago was still folded in my wallet. Twins, the technician had said with a wide smile, pointing to two perfect little spines on the grainy screen.
I had tried to call Marcus from the parking lot, but he was in a meeting. Then another meeting. Then drinks with clients.
I had kept waiting for the perfect moment to tell him, to share this incredible, terrifying, wonderful secret. Now I realized there was no perfect moment with a man who found my very existence unbearable. He left without a goodbye kiss.
The front door closed with a sound like a coffin lid settling into place. I sat at our kitchen table, surrounded by a mountain of unopened baby shower gifts, tiny monuments to a future that now felt like a fantasy. My phone buzzed.
It was Sarah. Are you okay? That was messed up yesterday.
I typed back a lie: I’m fine. Her reply was instant. Pack a bag.
Come stay with me. Seriously. Now.
I stared at the messages, at my engagement ring, at the ultrasound photos stuck to our refrigerator—photos Marcus had never truly looked at. The twins moved again, a rolling wave of elbows and knees, as if they were urging me to act.
