Chapter 1

An hour before my prenatal appointment, my husband texted me to say he couldn’t make it.

"Chloe is having another episode. She can't be left alone."

Chloe again. One of his patients.

I was five months pregnant. I had been to six checkups.

Every single time, it was because of her. He said she had no family to look after her. He said she was emotionally unstable. He said it was his responsibility as her doctor…

I stared at the screen, suddenly feeling so deeply exhausted.

I typed a quick reply: "Okay. I'll go by myself."

His text popped up almost instantly: "You're the best, babe. So understanding. I'll buy you a gift as soon as I'm done."

I opened the clinic’s patient portal and canceled my ultrasound appointment.

Then I scrolled down and booked an abortion for that very afternoon.

The screen glare made my eyes sting, but I didn't lock my phone right away.

I opened our chat history and mindlessly scrolled up.

All the way back to last October.

That was the first time the name Chloe ever appeared.

"A patient named Chloe came through the ER today. She's in rough shape. I need to stay and monitor her. I'll be home late."

Back then, I didn't think much of it.

He was a doctor. His patients needed him. That was just part of the job.

Then texts like that became a daily routine.

"Chloe had another breakdown today. I need to go check on her."

"Chloe doesn't have any family here. The hospital asked me to keep an extra eye on her."

"Chloe's condition took a turn. I might not make it home tonight. Go ahead and eat dinner without me."

The first time I felt hurt was during my second checkup.

He had promised to be there with me. He left the house at six in the morning, promising he’d come straight over as soon as he finished morning rounds.

I waited by the clinic entrance until ten o'clock, only to receive a text:

"Chloe is having an episode. She can't be left alone."

I went in for the scan all by myself.

I took a short video of the ultrasound and sent it to him. He didn’t reply until late that night:

"Just saw it. So cute. You worked hard today, babe."

At my third checkup, he said Chloe was suicidal and he had to keep watch.

At my fourth checkup, he said Chloe had just stabilized and he couldn't leave her side.

The fifth time. The sixth time.

Every single time, it was Chloe.

I began scrolling through our arguments.

The first fight happened earlier this year.

I told him, "Can you please stop mentioning Chloe every single second?"

He fired back, "Do you have any idea what she’s going through? She's all alone in this city. No family, no friends, suffering from severe clinical depression.”

“She's tried to end her life multiple times. I'm her attending physician. I can't just abandon her."

I asked, "Then what about me?"

He said, "You're my wife. You're supposed to understand."

After that, I stopped arguing.

Because arguing was useless.

Scrolling further down, his messages grew shorter and shorter.

"Chloe had a bad day. Late tonight."

"Chloe's not good today."

"Chloe needs me."

Last month, he sent one that read: "Chloe called me by my first name today. It was the first time she initiated a conversation. I'm so happy."

He even added a string of exclamation marks.

The night before that message, I threw up four times until I was retching pure bile. I called him, but he never picked up.

All of his patience, tenderness, and care were being poured into another woman.

She wasn't a lover. She wasn't an affair partner. She was just his patient.

Yet it felt a thousand times worse than being cheated on.

Because I had no moral ground to hate a sick patient.

I didn't even have the right to be angry. The moment I showed frustration, I became petty, selfish, and heartless.

I put my phone face down and rested my palm against my lower belly.

Five months.

I could already feel faint, delicate flutters inside me.

I never told Logan about them.

He always came home so late. Sometimes he didn't come home at all.

Even when he did return, he was so drained he would collapse onto the bed and fall asleep immediately.

I had wanted him to feel our baby kick, to listen to the heartbeat. But he always said, "Next time. Definitely next time."

There wouldn't be a next time.

I stared at the ceiling, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes and trickling into my ears, cold and itchy.

It broke my heart.

It truly broke my heart.

This baby had lived inside me for over a hundred and fifty days. I went to every ultrasound alone. I had my blood drawn alone.

I had even bought a tiny baby onesie—powder blue, with a little embroidered elephant on the chest.

I kept it tucked away in the drawer, waiting for a day when Logan had time so we could look at it together.

But he never had time. He never would.