I turned off my phone because I couldn’t take anymore.
Carrie came over that afternoon and found me still in bed. She climbed in next to me like we were kids again and held me while I cried.
“You need to leave him,” she said softly. “He hit you, Marina. In front of witnesses. You could press charges. You could take him for everything.”
My mother called that night saying the same thing. So did my father. So did everyone in my family who reached out.
Leave him. Sue him. Make him pay.
But I couldn’t. Not yet. Because the test would prove I was innocent and then everything would go back to normal. It had to.
I lay awake that night with my hand on my stomach trying to feel something—some connection to the life growing inside me. But all I felt was doubt. What if Evan was right? What if the vasectomy made it impossible? What if somehow, someway, something had happened that I couldn’t remember? The thought made me sick, but I couldn’t stop it from creeping in.
I went through every night of the past three months in my head. Every time Evan and I had been together, every moment I’d been alone—nothing made sense. I knew I hadn’t cheated. I knew it in my bones. But if Evan really couldn’t have children, then whose baby was this?
On day four, Jeff knocked on my door holding a bag of takeout.
“Figured you weren’t eating,” he said.
His voice was gentle and his eyes were soft with concern. I hadn’t showered in two days. I was wearing the same sweatpants I’d slept in, and my hair was tangled into a mess on top of my head. I looked like a wreck, but Jeff didn’t seem to notice or care. He just stood there on my porch, waiting patiently for me to let him in.
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