Stop worrying.
Stop existing.
Stop asking questions that threaten the fragile narrative he built around Alice.
He grabbed the glass on the table, filled it halfway, and chugged it down before turning back to the couch.
He didn’t notice that he dropped some water on the floor.
He didn’t notice me bend over—slowly, painfully—to wipe it.
He didn’t notice the wince that crossed my face when my swollen belly pressed against my ribs.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe he didn’t care.
I took a deep breath, the ache in my chest spreading like frost.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I murmured.
“Mm.”
He didn’t even look up.
As I walked toward the bathroom, his scent faded behind me—cold, distant, unrecognizable. And I realized then that I had already been living alone for months. The bond between us still existed, but the connection—his affection, his attention, his loyalty—was gone.
Vanished.
Maybe it had already disappeared the moment Alice returned with her bruised arms and trembling lips, weaving herself back into his life with all the fragility of a wounded dove.
And I…
I was the storm he wanted to avoid.
Under the running water, I let myself break.
Silently.
So he wouldn’t hear.
So he would never know how deeply his indifference cut me.
But my pup heard.
I felt the gentle kick beneath my palm, as if telling me:
You’re not alone, Mommy.
No.
I wasn’t.
And I wouldn’t allow us to live like this any longer.