On the day when I had a difficult labor, my husband chose to save his first love’s doll instead of saving me.
It was the day I was supposed to give birth, and Josh’s ex, Mia, posted a picture on Instagram. It was a photo of her on a highway overpass, clutching a baby doll.
The caption read, “If I hadn’t miscarried, our
baby would be as cute as this doll.”
Josh saw the post and scoffed, “What a
psycho. Hope she doesn’t fall and kill herself.”
But then he rushed out the door and didn’t
come back all night.
On the cold operating table, I calmly said, “My
husband died today. Don’t bother saving the
baby.”
<
Three hours before delivery, Josh said he had
to run an errand and would be back soon.
Two hours before delivery, my water broke. I
called him a dozen times, but he didn’t answer.
One hour before delivery, I was alone in a
speeding ambulance, my dress soaked in blood.
I’d fallen down the stairs and was at risk of
losing both myself and the baby.
At the hospital, they slapped a critical condition
notice on me, but there was no one to sign it.
The nurse urged me to contact family. My
hands shaking, I scrolled through Josh’s
contacts, but accidentally clicked on the glaring
red notification dot on Instagram.
It was Mia. That picture on the overpass, with
the doll. Posted three hours ago. Josh’s
comment was at the top. “What a psycho. Hope
she doesn’t fall and kill herself.”
<
Stunned, I refreshed the page and Josh’s latest
post popped up. A picture of Mia’s back on the
overpass, captioned, “Made it just in time.”
Posted one minute ago.
The air was thick and hot, but I was ice cold.
They rushed me into surgery.
The doctor told me they couldn’t save the baby,
only me. My heart felt hollow, shredded.
Numb, I lay on the operating table. “Let it go.
My husband died today anyway.”
My baby girl, full–term, was stillborn. I looked at
the tiny, wrinkled being, a sharp pain stabbing
my chest.
When I woke up in my room, I texted Josh:
“Divorce.” The only reply was that dreaded red
exclamation point
–
blocked.
My face hardened. I took a screenshot and
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7:36
- ))
posted it to Instagram. “Day 1 in the hospital
464
after losing our baby. My husband blocked me. Does he hate me now?”
I’d added a bunch of his friends so I could keep
tabs on him, which was ironic now. He loved playing the perfect husband. The post
immediately drew comments. I ignored them all.
Two hours later, I was jolted awake by the ringing phone. Josh’s voice exploded, “Olivia! Mia freaked out and blocked you on my phone!
She’s not stable; I have to take care of her.
Can’t you be understanding?”
My hand trembled as I typed. After seeing my
post, his first concern wasn’t my
hospitalization, but my supposed lack of
understanding.
“I’m in the hospital after a miscarriage, alone.
Are you understanding?”
<
Josh was impatient. “Don’t be childish. And
don’t curse the baby, whatever that means.”
“The doctor said you weren’t due for weeks.
The housekeeper can take care of you. I’ll be
back in a few days.”
