I looked from the glowing screen up to the man I had spent the last seven years of my life loving. He glanced down at his phone, swiped the notification away with a casual flick of his thumb, and looked back at me with completely dead eyes.

“Like I was saying,” Joseph muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s just not working anymore. I think we rushed into things. And honestly, with the whole baby situation… it’s just a lot of pressure. I don’t think we’re meant to be parents right now.

Or together.” He was leaving me because he thought I was broken. He was leaving me because the infertility journey had been “too much pressure,” completely ignoring the fact that it was my body bearing the physical brunt of it all. And worst of all, he was leaving me for my sister, the one person who had sat on the edge of my bed and held my hand while I cried over negative pregnancy tests.

At that exact moment, my grip tightened on the plastic stick in my pocket. A normal person would have thrown it at him. A normal person would have screamed, cried, and demanded answers. But a strange, icy calm washed over me. I realized in a split second that if I told him I was pregnant, he might stay out of obligation.

Or worse, he would leave anyway, and I would spend the rest of my life tied to a man who had completely betrayed me, forced to co-parent with him and my backstabbing sister. He didn’t deserve to know. He didn’t deserve this child. “Okay,” I said quietly.

My voice didn’t even shake. He blinked, clearly surprised by my lack of hysteria. “Okay? That’s it?” “That’s it,” I replied, turning around and walking into our bedroom.

I packed two suitcases that night. I didn’t say a word to him as I carried them out to my car.

I blocked his number, blocked Chloe’s number, and blocked my parents when they inevitably tried to call me to play peacemaker.