Chapter 4No Second Chances for My Amnesiac Groom

After settling my mother into a quiet boutique hotel room downtown and making sure she had taken her blood pressure medication, I called an Uber.

The driver glanced at my smeared eyeliner in the rearview mirror. "Where to, miss?"

"St. Jude Women’s Pavilion," I said. "Emergency admission."

He didn't ask another question.

Outside the window, the neon signs of the city blurred into streaks of magenta and cold blue. My hand rested instinctively on the swell of my belly.

Twenty-four weeks.

Twins. Two little boys.

The sonographer had told me at my last scan that they were thriving, measuring slightly ahead of schedule, curled around each other like two small apples. I used to keep the ultrasound printouts hidden in a locked folder on my phone, waiting for Simon’s next "lucid period" so we could celebrate together.

There would be no celebration.

At the hospital, I bypassed the regular triage desk and checked in directly at maternal-fetal medicine. The intake nurse took my chart, glanced at my driver's license, and then looked down at my intake form. Her pen stopped moving.

"Ms. Hayes," she said, her voice dropping to a cautious, clinical whisper. "You’re requesting a late-term termination for a twin pregnancy?"

"Yes."

"Given your gestational age, this requires medical induction and a surgical evacuation. The risks are substantial. Severe hemorrhaging, uterine scarring, infection, and a permanent risk of secondary infertility." She hesitated, looking at the diamond engagement ring still on my left hand. "Is your partner here? Have you discussed this with your family?"

I looked down at my lap. My fingers curled into a fist, then slowly relaxed.

Discuss it?

With whom? With the man who dropped to one knee before another woman while his unborn children were inside me?

I knew better than anyone what it felt like to grow up in the shadow of a lie. My mother had been deceived into being a married man’s secret mistress for seven agonizing years. I had spent my childhood hearing the whispers behind closed doors, branded a bastard child by suburban neighbors who looked at me with pity and disgust.

I swore on my life that my children would never inherit that legacy. They would never be treated as the collateral damage of a coward's double life.

"I don't need to discuss it," I said, meeting her eyes. "My signature is on the consent form. Please prepare the room."