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My husband’s a surgeon, always so wrapped up in his job that he was hardly ever home.
A week before I was supposed to give birth, I found myself driving alone to the hospital where he worked. I was having the baby!
I parked in the underground garage and ran toward the elevator. I was about to get in when out of nowhere, I got shoved hard from behind–by his first love. Vivian
Vanderbilt.
One hard shove and I was on the ground, belly–first. In that split second, I felt it–my blood, warm and pooling fast between my legs.
The contractions shot through me so deep that my skin went pale.
I gasped, begging for help. But, as if she didn’t see my bloody situation, she casually took out her phone and dialed my husband
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right in front of me.
Her voice was all sweet and flirty as she talked to the father of my baby.
She cooed, “Marcus, I’m almost there. My finger really hurts… ‘You think I can skip the line? Ivory won’t mind, right?”
I watched her step into the elevator and leave me helpless on the floor. With trembling fingers, I fumbled for my phone and called my husband. But he hung up on me–three times.
When he finally answered, there wasn’t a single ounce of concern in his voice.
“Didn’t I tell you not to call me when I’m at work? Listen, Vivian cut her hand. I’m prepping to bandage it. I don’t have time
for this!”
Just like that, he ended the call before I could even say a word.
I closed my eyes, feeling myself slipping.
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I don’t know what would’ve happened if it wasn’t for a doctor passing by. He saw me and rushed me to the ER.
Right before the operation, the doctor told me I needed a family member to sign the pre–op form.
I had no choice but to call my husband again, forcing myself to stay awake, to explain what happened. I barely managed to say I’d fallen, and I needed him to sign. But before I could even get to the point, he snapped.
“For Pete’s sake, Ivory, stop freaking out every time Vivian’s name comes up! Our baby was fine earlier, and now that I helped Vivian, something suddenly happened to you again. Come on, don’t use the baby to manipulate me!”
“I’ve got real emergencies to deal with! Security cameras are literally everywhere in this hospital! What do you think Vivian and I are doing? Dammit, stop being paranoid!”
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“I’m working with nerves and blood vessels. here. One wrong move could be fatal. If you’re gonna argue with me about this, I don’t need to explain myself anymore. Think what you want.”
The blood kept pooling under me, soaking the hospital bed. Time was running out, so the doctor beside me took the phone to explain, but Marcus had already hung up.
I forced a bitter smile. “I’ll sign it myself,” I said. “I don’t have any family.”
The nurses around me exchanged. sympathetic glances.
I signed, over and over, with my hand shaking, and finally, they wheeled me into
surgery.
The lights were harsh and blinding–that was the last thing I remembered.
The next thing I knew, my belly was flat. Just a raw, stitched–up wound was left.
I looked around the room, but the baby… I
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didn’t see my baby.
Where was my baby?
Panicked, I tried to sit up despite the pain until a nurse who was about to change my bandages stopped me.
She must’ve seen the desperation in my eyes; her face full of that gentle sympathy I hated.
“I’m so sorry. Your baby didn’t make it.”
It felt like someone had ripped the earth from under me. I collapsed back on the bed, and tears just poured out. I didn’t even feel the pain of her changing the bandages.
I’d been married to Marcus for five years.
For five years, he’d put his first love first, time and time again..
I used to ask him about it, and we’d fight. He always said she was just like a sister.
I loved him, so I believed him. I kept making excuses for why he was so cold. I
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thought, once the baby came, he’d finally come back to me, back to our family.
But in the end. his first love wrecked our home.
What cut hand? What bandages? Since when does a top surgeon like him need to deal with something that minor himself?
Those were all just excuses.
He loved her. He always had. He’d do anything for her.
And when she came back into his life. I lost him.
That thought pulled a bitter smile from me.
When the nurse left and shut the door. I stared at my phone.
It had been eight hours since I called my husband, and my phone was silent. No single message. No missed calls.
My fingers hovered over the screen, and with my one free hand, the one not hooked
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up to an IV, I typed out what should’ve been
said years ago.
[Marcus, let’s get divorced.]
