Our bed.
The bed we had chosen together.
The bed where I had spent countless nights rubbing his shoulders after long workdays.
The bed where he had held me when we learned I was pregnant.
The bed where I had cried into his chest after a doctor warned us that the first trimester might be difficult.
Now, apparently, it belonged to him.
I tried one last time.
“Ryan, please.
I’m scared to sleep out there alone.”
His expression hardened.
“Claire, I’m not discussing this again.”
He turned off his bedside lamp, pulled the blanket over himself, and lay down.
I remained standing beside the bed, one hand on my belly and the other gripping the edge of the mattress.
Our daughter moved beneath my palm.
A small, unmistakable kick.
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“Your daddy is being mean tonight, sweetheart,” I whispered.
Ryan heard me.
