«I called you.»
«I was busy.»
I looked at him, trying to speak without crying.
«I lost the baby, Ethan.»
For a moment, the room fell silent.
Then he laughed.
Not because he hadn’t understood me.
Because he didn’t believe me.
«Another excuse,» he said. «You always have an excuse whenever you don’t want to do something.»
Margaret finally looked up.
Instead of asking whether I was okay, she frowned at my hospital shirt.
«You could have at least changed your clothes before coming home looking like that.»
I stared at both of them.
For weeks, my doctor had been telling me to rest.
But Margaret always needed something.
The kitchen had to be cleaned.
The laundry had to be folded.
Her room had to be rearranged.
And Ethan always said the same thing:
«My mother worked through every one of her pregnancies. Stop pretending you’re weak.»
That morning, I had collapsed in the bathroom.
A neighbor found me and called an ambulance.
And now, just a few hours after losing our baby, my husband was angry because I hadn’t made dinner.
«I need to lie down,» I whispered.
I tried to walk past him.
