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One morning, there was coffee waiting for me on the counter — made just the way I liked it. That evening, she smiled when I came home. A few days later, she made my favorite dinner. Then she started leaving little notes — a simple “Have a good day” in my lunch, “Thank you” on a Post-It by the mirror.
Her kindness was unsettling. Tender, even. It made no sense. I had betrayed her. Why was she being so gentle? Was it pity? Denial? Some kind of emotional strategy before leaving?
I was too ashamed to ask. But the questions gnawed at me until I couldn’t take it anymore.
The Confrontation
One night, after another dinner she’d cooked with unsettling care, I finally spoke.
“Sarah,” I said, drying dishes beside her. “These appointments. You’ve been going a lot. I just need to know what’s going on.”
She stopped washing, turned off the water, and looked at me — calm, thoughtful, unreadable. Then she dried her hands, turned fully toward me, and said the words that shattered me all over again.
“I’m pregnant.”
Contnue READING…
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