Chapter 4He Signed My Abortion Paper

I went back to the apartment to pack my things. To my surprise, Denis was actually home.

He was in the kitchen, wearing an apron, simmering a pot of soup.

In the living room, Susie was lounging on my custom-ordered sofa, wearing my favorite silk robe, eating chips while watching a reality show.

When she saw me, she didn't bother to sit up. "Oh, hey, Nicole. I'd get up, but my doctor said I need bed rest. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge."

She acted more like the mistress of the house than I ever had.

Denis emerged from the kitchen, acting as if nothing had happened. "You're discharged? Why didn't you call me? I would have picked you up."

"I made some nourishing soup for Susie. There'll be leftovers if you want some."

I ignored him and went upstairs to pack.

Behind me, I heard Susie's whiny pout. "Denis, is Nicole mad at me?"

"Don't worry about it," he replied easily. "She's just throwing a tantrum. She'll get over it in a few days."

That was his signature move: the cold shoulder, waiting for me to exhaust my own anger so he could pretend nothing had happened.

But today, the cycle ended.

When I rolled my suitcases downstairs, Denis was blow-cooling a spoonful of soup for Susie. He froze when he saw the luggage.

"Why are you packing? Where are you going?"

"A business trip," I said flatly.

He frowned. "You're five months pregnant. Why is your company making you travel?"

Then, his eyes drifted down to my midsection. He stiffened. "Your stomach... it's..."

Before he could finish, a sharp crash shattered the silence. Susie had knocked her bowl off the side table. Hot soup and grease splattered across the handmade rug I had spent weeks picking out.

Susie wailed in pain. Denis immediately scooped her up, his face pale with worry.

As he rushed past me, he threw a command over his shoulder: "Don't leave yet. Wait for me to get back. My firm has a partnership with your agency—I'll make them cancel your trip."

I didn't answer. He didn't care. He ran out the door with her in his arms.

I took one last look at the place we had shared for three years.

On the mantel sat a framed photo of Denis and Susie. In the display cabinet were matching mugs they had painted together. The gallery wall was filled with photos of their trips.

My entire existence in this apartment fit into two small suitcases.

I closed the door, walked out, and hailed a cab to the airport.

When my flight landed in London, I turned on my phone. It exploded with hundreds of missed calls and texts from Denis.