Then he chuckled. “Vanessa is pregnant.” I turned toward the tiny bundle sleeping beside me.
“I’m happy for both of you.” “You really should come,” he continued. “Maybe then you’ll finally understand the problem was never me.”
I said nothing. For five years, I had gone through fertility treatments, two m.
i. s. c. a. r. r. i. a. g. e. s, and more medical tests than I could count.
At first, Adrian came to every appointment. Then he started arriving late.
Eventually, he stopped showing up completely. Every disappointing medical result became something he could use against me.
His mother, Margaret Vale, once announced over family dinner that her son deserved: “A home full of children, not a permanent waiting room.”
Then Vanessa Cole entered Adrian’s life. She was his executive assistant.
First came the late-night messages. Then the weekend “business trips.”
Finally, a photograph accidentally sent to me confirmed everything I had already suspected.
The d. i. v. o. r. c. e happened quickly. But Adrian never knew one thing.
Four days before I signed the final papers… I discovered I was pregnant.
I chose not to tell him. Not after overhearing him tell his attorney in the hallway that marrying me had been: “A waste of my best years to start a family.”
Now our daughter was sleeping less than three feet away. “I’ll send you the address,” Adrian continued.
