Taking Care of His Best Friend's Wife Chapter 2

Chapter 2: A Ghost in the Womb

The nausea hit me in waves, a relentless tide that had nothing to do with the betrayal burning in my chest. I stood over the bathroom sink, gripping the cool porcelain, my body convulsing around nothing.

A flicker of hope, stubborn and foolish, had made me buy the test. Two blue lines. A miracle, I had thought. Our miracle. A secret I’d cradled for two weeks, waiting for the perfect moment to tell him. I’d imagined his face, the joy, the way it might pull us back from the chilly distance that had grown between us.

Now, the secret felt like a lead weight in my empty stomach.

He came home late, the scent of rain and another woman’s subtle perfume clinging to his coat. "Su Qing wasn't feeling well," he said by way of greeting, not meeting my eyes. "Dizzy. I had to make sure she ate something."

I clutched the counter, the cool marble a stark contrast to the feverish shame crawling up my neck. My body was screaming its news, and he was deaf to it.

"Are you even listening?" he snapped, his patience thin as ice. "You've been so distant lately. Self-absorbed."

Self-absorbed.

The word was a slap. I was building a human being. He was building a nursery for another woman.

The next day, I went to the obstetrician alone. The waiting room was full of couples, hands intertwined, excited whispers weaving through the air. I sat alone, a ghost at the feast.

And then I saw them.

He was there. In the same hospital. His arm was around Su Qing, guiding her tenderly out of a different examination room. He held a black-and-white printout, his gaze fixed on it with a focus, a reverence, I hadn't seen from him in years. She was pointing at the image, saying something that made him smile—a genuine, unguarded smile.

My own B超 photo, tucked in my purse, suddenly felt like a counterfeit.

He never looked up. He never saw me shrinking into my chair, my own secret joy turning to ash.

I walked out of the hospital, the sun feeling unnaturally bright and cold. I pulled out my phone, my fingers moving with a strange, detached calm. I found the photo of my baby—our baby—a tiny, blurry bean of potential.

I deleted it.

The action was silent, final. There would be no perfect moment. There was no 'us' left to tell.

Then, I called and made another appointment. For a different procedure.

This home, this life, this man who belonged to someone else… it was no place to bring a child.