Two months.
Just as I had told him that day in our kitchen.
Just as he had dismissed as another lle.
Just as Emma had convinced him was a manipulation.
Mark’s legs gave out. He collapsed into a chair, his eyes fixed on the evidence of his unborn child.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”
His hand reached out, hovering over my stomach but couldn’t bring himself to touch it.
The truth he’d refused to see was now impossible to deny.
His wife had been telling the truth.
His child had been real.
And now we were both gone.
Watching him from beyond, I wanted to scream, to make him understand that his blindness, his devotion to Emma, had cost not just my life, but our baby’s too.
But I was just a corpse now.
A body on a cold metal table.
Proof of all the truths he’d refused to believe until it was too late.
