Barely a half–hour later, the drugs started
working. I was writhing on the bed, sweating
and in agonizing pain. Greg had barely hung up with the doctor before he appeared, obviously
having been waiting outside.
Even though I’d gone through it seven times,
losing another baby made my heart break all
over again.
<
Through the pain, I heard the doctor say, “Mr.
Greg, she’s bleeding more than usual this time.
I’m afraid she may be completely infertile.”
Greg didn’t say a word. He just wrapped his
arms around me, his eyes red. “Kate, don’t
worry. Even if we can’t have kids, I’ll still love
you, and I’ll take care of you for the rest of my
life.”
This big–shot CEO, who’d never had to lift a
finger, was cleaning up the blood, and when we
went to bed, he held me close, afraid I was too
cold after the miscarriage.
Later, in the middle of the night, Greg
murmured in his sleep, “Ashley, don’t worry. I’ll
make sure you’re happy.”
The tears that had been building finally burst.
At the wedding, he’d promised me happiness,
but that was just to keep me from getting in
Ashley’s way.
I suddenly realized my marriage had been a
complete joke.
I sent a text to my best friend, Sarah, who was
living overseas. “Remember when you wanted
me to travel the world with you? I’ve decided
be in France to see you in a couple days.”
I put down my phone, still feeling the
aftershocks of pain in my belly. The thought of
losing another child, a child killed by his own
father, was unbearable.
I locked myself in the bathroom, looking back
over all my time with Greg while tears flowed.
I bent to pick up my phone when I noticed
something hidden under the sink. It was
wrapped in layers of expensive silk, like it was
precious cargo.
It was a photo album.
An album full of photos of Ashley from the age
of 15 to 28. I’d seen the album’s cover in
Greg’s office before. Greg always had a thing for photography.
While Greg was Mark’s uncle, he was only a few years older than us. When we were kids, he’d just watch Mark and I goof around, like he was too cool to join our games.
Then, when Ashley started hanging out with us,
Greg seemed to become more involved, picking
<
up photography around the same time.
I’d assumed he’d just grown up. But really, he’d
just found someone he liked.
Most of the pictures in the album were ones I’d
never seen before. They were shots of Ashley at
moments only he would have noticed. Each
smile, each tiny frown, even the way she
brushed her hair, was captured through Greg’s
lens.
After our marriage, Greg had stopped touching
his camera.
Once, I’d wanted him to take my picture while I
was pregnant, but he said he’d lost it and then
hooked me up with a famous photographer.
He hadn’t lost it. He just didn’t use his lens on
anyone but the woman he loved.
My eyes burned, unable to shed another tear. I
quietly put the album back.
I bought a plane ticket and drafted a divorce
agreement on my phone. If he loved Ashley so
much, I’d set him free.
The next morning, my eyes were so swollen, I
looked like a cartoon character. Greg was all
<
concern, making me a fancy breakfast and
peeling a boiled egg to put on my eyes for th
swelling.
His sweet, considerate manner made me almost
question if last night had been a dream.
But my empty stomach told me that it was real.
Seeing that I wasn’t eating, he sighed, “Kate,
we lost our baby. I know you’re hurting, and I’m
hurting too. But you need to take care of
yourself. You’ve had so many miscarriages, your
body’s weak. Please eat something, so I don’t
worry.”
