Chapter 1He Signed My Abortion Paper

I ran into Denis at the clinic during my prenatal checkup.

That morning, he had slipped out of the house early, claiming a sudden crisis at the office. Yet here he was, hovering over his foster sister, Susie, guiding her with a protective tenderness that made my chest tighten. He was completely devoted to her early pregnancy, while I—five months pregnant with his child—stood there entirely alone.

I walked up to him and handed him a slip of paper.

"Since you're here, sign this."

Guilt flickered across his face. He quickly signed the paper without even looking at the content, eager to explain himself.

"Susie's husband is out of town on business, and she couldn't handle the checkup alone. I only lied about work because I didn't want you throwing another tantrum like last time."

He was terrified of Susie being inconvenienced for a single morning, but perfectly fine leaving his five-month-pregnant wife to navigate a crowded hospital alone. It was laughable. But instead of screaming or crying like I used to, I simply took the paper back, turned, and walked away.

Startled by my quietness, Denis called out after me. "Wait, Nicole. What did I just sign?"

I paused, a bitter smile touching my lips. "An abortion consent form."

* * *

Denis froze, but before he could process my words, Susie's hand slid around his arm. She looked at me, her eyes wide with carefully manufactured disapproval.

"Nicole, I know you're upset that Denis is here with me, but you shouldn't make sick jokes like that!"

As always, one word from Susie was all it took to dismantle Denis's doubts. His furrowed brow smoothed out, and he gave me a weary, patronizing sigh.

"Honey, stop playing games. Let me finish helping Susie, and I promise I'll come straight home to be with you."

Five years. One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days. I had heard variations of that promise thousands of times.

On our first anniversary, he said, “Once I get back from taking Susie on her birthday trip, I’ll take you to see the sunrise in Maine.”

On my first birthday after we married, he said, “Let me finish helping Susie move, and I’ll be home to blow out your candles.”

The night I was t-boned by a truck and rushed to the ER in an ambulance, he said, “Once Susie's fever breaks, I’ll drive over.”

The truth was, those promises never came to fruition. Susie always had a new crisis, a new demand. And in Denis’s life, I was always a secondary thought, forever relegated to the back of the line.

I clutched the signed form, spun on my heel, and walked back toward the OB-GYN ward. Waiting for my name to be called, I rested my palm on my belly.

One last time, I whispered to myself. I will give him one last chance.

If he came looking for me before they called my name, I would walk away and keep the baby.

Minutes bled into an hour. Finally, the PA system crackled to life.

"Number thirty-two. Nicole Kelly."

The page repeated three times. The hallway remained empty.

I laughed quietly at my own foolish hope. Standing up, I slipped my wedding ring off my finger and tossed it into the trash can. Then, I pulled out my phone and sent a pre-scheduled email to HR:

I am officially applying for the relocation to our London branch.

...

By nightfall, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Denis:

It's late. Why aren't you home yet?

Clutching my empty, aching stomach, my face pale, I got into a cab and typed back:

On my way.

The driver, a warm-hearted older man, noticed my shivering. "Rough night, miss? You look like you've seen a ghost. Why didn't your husband pick you up?"

"He's busy," I replied quietly.

When Susie called, he always had time. But when I called him terrified because a stranger was tailing me down a dark street on my way home from work, he told me to call an Uber. “There are streetlights everywhere, Nicole. Stop being paranoid.”

I never asked him for a ride again.

The driver shook his head in disapproval. "No man should be too busy to pick up his sick wife."

I stared out the window. It began to rain, blurring the city lights. As we neared my building, I sent Denis one last text:

[It's pouring and I don't have an umbrella. Can you meet me at the gate with one?]

His reply was instant:

[On my way down.]

The cab pulled up. I asked the driver to wait a minute. But one minute became ten. Ten became thirty. Denis never showed.

I dialed his number. Seven times it went straight to voicemail. On the eighth, he finally picked up.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"The thunder scared Susie," he said, his voice entirely casual. "I had to drive over to keep her company."

"Then how am I supposed to get inside?"

A sudden, dramatic gasp echoed from his end of the line, pulling his attention away. "I have to go," he said hurriedly. "You're always healthy, Nicole. A little rain won't hurt you. I'll make you some warm ginger tea when I get back—"

The call went dead before he even finished the sentence.

The driver gave me a look of pure pity. He handed me a spare umbrella. "Take it, kid. Go get some rest."

I held my phone tight, a dull, heavy ache settling in my chest. I transferred an extra hundred dollars to the driver, took the umbrella, and stepped out into the cold rain.