Chapter 2 - The Question He Should Have Asked
“Your wife never told you?”
When Naomi Ellis repeated those words to me, I was sitting in the back of a taxi outside the building where I had just signed my divorce instructions.
I could hear traffic through the open window.
For several seconds, I couldn't answer.
“Did he really say he didn't know?” I asked.
“He asked me twice what baby I meant.”
I looked at the thin envelope in my lap.
Inside was an ultrasound photograph, folded between two appointment cards. I had carried it in my purse since Tuesday.
That was when the doctor confirmed I was ten weeks pregnant.
I had gone to the appointment alone because Adrian had been away at another meeting. I had come home with the photograph and spent two evenings trying to find the right moment to tell him. Wednesday, he didn't come home until after midnight. Thursday, I was standing over his medication organizer when he asked for a divorce.
I hadn't kept a child secret for months.
I had been trying to tell a husband who had stopped making room for me to speak.
“Naomi,” I said, “I won't pretend he doesn't have a right to know he's going to be a father.”
“I understand. But we need to be precise. A court isn't going to award custody of an unborn baby today. We've documented your intention to seek primary residence and sole decision-making after the birth. His rights, your concerns and the child's safety will be addressed through the proper process.”
“I know.”
“Do you still want the divorce?”
I pictured Adrian asking where his breakfast was, then where I had packed his medication.
“Yes.”
Naomi exhaled softly.
“He's asking to speak to you directly.”
I watched an elderly couple cross the pavement holding hands. The man was carrying his wife's shopping bag, and she was pointing out something across the street. Neither looked particularly remarkable.
I couldn't stop watching them.
“Tell him he can call,” I said. “No surprises. No men at the door.”
Adrian called four minutes later.
“Elena.”
For eight years, I had been able to hear his mood in the way he said my name. This time I heard something unfamiliar.
Fear.
“How far along?” he asked.
“Ten weeks.”
“Ten weeks?”
“That's what I said.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
I closed my eyes.
“I found out on Tuesday. I wanted to show you the picture. You were busy Wednesday. On Thursday, before I could say anything, you told me you wanted Bianca instead.”
He didn't speak.
“You could have told me after.”
“After you explained that she made you feel needed? While I was handing you your medication? What exactly was I supposed to say, Adrian?”
“Elena—”
“I told my lawyer the next day. You learned about the baby that same afternoon. I wasn't planning to hide anything.”
There was a muffled sound, as if he'd sat down.
“Are you all right?”
It was the first time he'd asked me that in longer than I cared to measure.
“I'm pregnant. I'm exhausted. And I'm getting divorced.”
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“Come home.”
“No.”
He took a breath.
“I need to see you.”
“Needing something doesn't mean you get it immediately.”
I surprised myself with how calmly I said it.
“I'm not asking you to change your mind about the divorce,” he said. “I just need to understand.”
“You had eight years to understand me.”
He was silent again.
I didn't enjoy hurting him. That was perhaps the most exhausting part of the entire conversation. I still knew what his headaches sounded like. I knew how the scar near his shoulder tightened when it was cold. I knew he would forget his evening prescription if no one put it in front of him.
And I knew none of that meant I should return.
“Call Naomi if you want to discuss arrangements,” I told him. “I'll talk to you about the baby when we're both calm.”
“You really don't want anything?” he asked.
“Nothing for myself.”
“Not the house?”
“No.”
“Not money?”
“Anything the child is entitled to is the child's, Adrian. That isn't the same thing as buying back my marriage.”
His breath caught at the word child.
“I didn't know,” he said.
“I believe you.”
I ended the call before either of us could mistake my answer for forgiveness.
That evening, I collected a small suitcase from the house while Adrian was out. I left the medicine organizer on the kitchen counter, precisely where it had been the previous morning. My clothes filled one suitcase; after eight years, it was astonishing how little I wanted to carry away.
Naomi had arranged a quiet hotel suite in my own name for the weekend. I paid for it from my savings.
At seven, the hotel receptionist told me a delivery had arrived.
I expected flowers.
Instead there was a plain paper envelope containing the ultrasound appointment schedule I'd kept on my private calendar. No message. No sender. The page had been printed from a screenshot, including the time of my next medical visit.
My hands went cold.
I had not sent that calendar to Adrian.
I had not even told him the name of my doctor.
I called Naomi and photographed the envelope before touching the paper again.
“Don't throw anything away,” she said. “And don't assume you know who sent it.”
I looked at the precise time printed beside next week's appointment.
For the first time since Adrian asked for a divorce, I was frightened by something other than losing my marriage.
May you like
Somebody had been looking at the most private part of my life.
And I didn't know why.
