The night my ex-husband, Oscar Hawthorne, celebrated his wedding to another woman, I, Claire Forrester, called a moving company. Under the cloak of darkness, I emptied the house we had called home for eight years.

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1

At two in the morning, a sharp pain in my lower abdomen jolted me awake. My hand swept across the cold, empty sheets beside me—a stark reminder that my husband, Oscar Hawthorne, hadn't come home again.

The pain intensified, a searing blade twisting inside me. With a trembling hand, I dialed Oscar's number. The phone rang for what felt like an eternity before someone finally answered.

Before I could utter a word, a younger woman's voice cooed through the receiver. "Claire? Oscar's with my mom at the hospital. He's exhausted and already asleep. Let's talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Wait, don't—"

The violent cramps in my abdomen stole my breath, turning every word into a pained gasp.

The woman on the other end chuckled softly, a sound utterly devoid of concern, and disconnected the call.

When I tried again, the phone was off. I gasped for air as wave after wave of excruciating pain wracked my body, sending me into uncontrollable convulsions. Tears streamed down my face.

I didn't want to die. I was only twenty-six. I still had my parents. And I had Oscar—the man I had loved for eight years.

Forcing myself to stay conscious, I dialed 911. Then, I crawled from the bedroom to the living room and unlatched the front door. The last thing I heard before the world went black was the wail of ambulance sirens tearing through the night.

The doctor's diagnosis was swift and brutal: a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. I needed immediate surgery. Hospital policy required them to contact my family, but Oscar's phone remained unreachable.

"Do you have any other relatives or friends we can call?" a young nurse asked sympathetically, her eyes lingering on my ashen face as I lay on the gurney.

I managed a bitter smile and shook my head. My parents were hours away in the small town of Lakewood, Michigan. The earliest flight wouldn't get them to Chicago until the next afternoon. Besides, my mother, Grace Forrester, had a weak heart; this kind of shock could be fatal.

My best friend, Olivia Hayes, lived in the city, but she was in her third trimester and could go into labor any day. I couldn't bear to worry her.

"I can sign for myself," I rasped. "I'll do it alone."

The surgery lasted through the night. When I woke, it was already morning. Faint winter sunlight streamed through the blinds, but it did nothing to dispel the chilling frost that had settled deep in my heart.

Nurse Sarah Jenkins noticed I was awake and hurried over with some warm water, using a cotton swab to moisten my chapped lips.

"Ms. Forrester, you're finally awake. You have no idea how close a call that was. The doctor said the rupture was in a very dangerous location. A few more minutes, and they might not have been able to save you."

I touched my flat lower abdomen, my heart aching with a hollow regret. Oscar and I had been trying to conceive for two years, enduring so much. We had finally succeeded, only for it to almost cost me my life.

I clutched my phone, fresh tears rolling down my cheeks. An entire night had passed without a single call or text from Oscar.

The baby was gone. But its father had to know. I dialed his number again.

This time, he answered.

"Honey, I—"

"Claire, I know I've been neglecting you lately, but I'm just so tired. Eleanor was in and out of the ER all day yesterday. And there's nothing going on between Hedy and me. She's like a sister; she could never threaten your position as Mrs. Hawthorne. Can't you just be mature about this? Stop making a scene."

Oscar's voice was laced with an impatient weariness.

I held the phone, speechless.

After a beat of silence, he pressed on. "Well? What is it this time, Claire?"

"I... ectopic pregnancy..."

Before I could finish, I heard Hedy's anxious, tearful voice in the background.

"Oscar, Mom's blood oxygen is dropping again! The doctor needs you!"

"We'll talk later. I have to go."

Oscar hung up before my words could even register.

I stared blankly at the ceiling, my already raw eyes flooding with tears once more.

Oscar and I had been together for nearly eight years. We met in college, survived four years of long distance, and married two years ago, promising to build a life and a family together.

But in the three months since his childhood sweetheart—his so-called sister, Hedy—had returned with her mother, I had somehow transformed into a jealous, irrational harpy in his eyes.

A strangled laugh bubbled up from my throat. I covered my eyes with my hand, a smile fixed on my lips as the tears refused to stop.

I knew exactly what Hedy and her mother, Eleanor, meant to Oscar.

When Oscar was young, his parents were Ivy League scholars who traveled the world, often leaving him in the care of their neighbor, Eleanor.

A single mother raising Hedy, Eleanor treated Oscar like her own son. Growing up, everyone saw Oscar and Hedy as the perfect pair, destined to walk down the aisle.

But the year Oscar started college, Eleanor moved to Europe with Hedy to chase a cross-continental romance. They were gone for eight years. It wasn't until three months ago that Hedy returned to Chicago, bringing with her an Eleanor who was now battling late-stage pancreatic cancer, and sought out Oscar.

From that moment on, Oscar was home less and less.

His excuse was always the same: "I'm at the hospital with them. Eleanor doesn't have much time." My trust in him, and my sympathy for his past, kept me from complaining. I believed our love was strong enough to withstand the return of a childhood friend.

At first, I even tried to pitch in, contacting specialists on their behalf. But my attempts to help gradually made both Oscar and Hedy uncomfortable. It got to the point where my very presence was enough to send Hedy into tears, as if I had deeply wronged her.

Finally, Oscar asked me to stop visiting the hospital.

I didn't understand what I'd done wrong. I never questioned him, never picked a fight. I was just patiently waiting for him to handle his obligations so we could return to our life.

But this surgery, and Oscar's dismissive "stop making a scene," shattered my last shred of self-delusion.

I pushed the thoughts away and sent Oscar a text, attaching a photo of my hospital discharge summary.

In that very same hospital, Oscar frowned at the message.

Hedy, perched beside him, sensed his shift in mood and leaned in. Before Oscar could react, her eyes reddened, and plump tears began to roll down her cheeks.

"Oh, Oscar, I'm so sorry," she choked out. "I shouldn't have come back to you. I know Claire is terrified I'll steal you away... She's making up this story just to trick you into going home. My mom and I have ruined everything between you. I'm so, so sorry. I'll take Mom and leave tomorrow..."

Hearing this, a flicker of alarm shot through Oscar. But then he rationalized. He'd barely been home for three months. They hadn't been intimate. How could she possibly be pregnant? Besides, he knew I would never cheat on him.

This had to be another one of her clumsy, malicious ploys to get his attention—a desperate test of his love.

Oscar sighed and ruffled Hedy's hair, his voice impossibly gentle. "It's not your fault. I've spoiled her, that's all. It's made her so desperate she'd invent a vicious lie like an ectopic pregnancy."

"Thank you, Oscar. I don't know what I'd do without you," Hedy sobbed, throwing herself into his arms.

He patted her back, his touch comforting.

After calming Hedy, Oscar finally replied to my text.

The screen lit up with the judgment of the man I had loved for eight years: "Claire, Eleanor is fading. You know how much she means to me. Please, be mature and stop this charade. Lying about something so awful, about our future child... it's cruel. I promise I'll make it up to you when this is all over."

Disappointment pools drop by drop, and that last text was the one that broke the dam. For me, this was the flood.

Wiping away my tears, I sent him a single word: "Okay."

My decision was made.

Three days later, I was discharged. Oscar hadn't sent another message. I hadn't reached out.

Nurse Sarah gave me a kind parting warning. "Ms. Forrester, you're still very weak. You must rest when you get home. Eat well, sleep well, okay?"

I forced a smile, my heart a leaden weight. "Thank you, Sarah. I'll take care of myself."

After saying goodbye, I wrapped myself in a thick coat and started for the exit. I had only taken a few steps when a voice called my name.

"Claire? Oh my god, what are you doing here?!"

I turned to see my best friend, Olivia, her own belly swollen and ripe, clearly on the verge of giving birth.

Olivia’s eyes widened at my deathly pale face. "What are you doing here? You look terrible."

"I... I was pregnant," I said, my voice flat, as if discussing the weather.

Olivia's congratulations died on her lips as she registered the darkness in my tone.

I closed my eyes. "It was an ectopic pregnancy. I had surgery. I'm being discharged today."

"Why didn't you tell me?!" Olivia's anger quickly melted into concern as she grabbed my hand. "Wait, where is that bastard Oscar? Where the hell is he?!"

To our friends, Oscar was the doting husband, famous for protecting me from the slightest harm. His absence was a jarring shock.

A bitter smile twisted my lips. "He's at a hospital. A different one. With Hedy's mother. Apparently, he's a little busy for me."

Olivia, who knew the bare bones of the situation, was about to explode. "Even if his own mother were on her deathbed, you just came back from the brink! He should be here! I'm calling him right now!"

I pressed her hand down, shaking my head gently. "Don't, Olivia. It doesn't matter anymore. Why are you here alone?"

"Final check-up. Mark went to pay the bill. Claire, you're coming home with me!"

Just as Olivia was about to drag me off, our Uber arrived.

But as we stepped out of the elevator, we saw them. Hedy, standing in the lobby, arm in arm with Oscar.

All four of us froze.

The next second, Oscar shoved Hedy's hand away, but his gaze on me was as hard as stone.

"Claire, I explained everything in my text. What's the point of following me here, of spying on me? When did you become this unreasonable?"

"Claire, please, stop pressuring Oscar!"

In the middle of the bustling hospital lobby, Hedy let out a piercing shriek before dropping to her knees in front of me, clinging to Oscar's leg and bursting into theatrical sobs.

"Hedy, get up! What are you doing?" Oscar frantically tried to pull her up.

"Don't stop me, Oscar! It's all my fault, and my mother's. We're the ones who hurt Claire. But Claire, my mother is dying. I'm begging you, have mercy! Just let me borrow Oscar for a little while! As soon as she's gone, I promise I'll give him right back to you!"

As she spoke, she made a gesture as if to kowtow.

Unable to move her, Oscar's distress curdled into anger, which he directed squarely at me. "How can you be so heartless? Coming here just to force a girl who's about to lose her mother to her knees? Where is your conscience, Claire? You disgust me."