The baby was gone.
When she finally fell asleep in her hospital bed, exhausted and pale, I went home to grab her clean clothes.
While I was washing the ones she’d been wearing, I felt something stitched into the lining of her jumper — a hidden pocket.
Inside was a small velvet pouch.
And inside that pouch was a silver baby bracelet. Tiny. Delicate. With a little pink foot charm.
My hands began to shake.
Engraved on it was a single name:
Angela.
My name.
I sat down on the edge of the bathtub and stared at it for a long time.
She had planned to name her daughter after me.
After everything.
The affair hadn’t scared her. The scandal hadn’t changed her decision. She was ready to raise that baby alone. She hadn’t come to my door to beg for my husband. She hadn’t come for drama.
She came because she had no one left.
And suddenly, the story I’d been telling myself cracked apart.
Yes, she had betrayed me.
But he had pursued her. He had lied to both of us. He had promised her security and then disappeared when things became complicated. He had torn our marriage apart — and then abandoned her when she needed him most.
He had destroyed us both.
I went back to the hospital early the next morning.
She looked so small in that bed.
When she saw me, her eyes filled with panic. “You don’t have to stay,” she said quickly. “I know you hate me.”
I didn’t answer.
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