I stood barefoot on the icy marble tiles of his parents\u2019 sunroom, one palm resting against the partly opened door, listening as Mark Whitmore murmured into his phone on Christmas Eve while his whole family waited in the dining room.\u201cI know,\u201d he whispered gently. \u201cI know, sweetheart. But it\u2019s our baby. You can\u2019t give it away.\u201dFor one suspended moment, my brain refused to process the sentence. My body understood before my heart could catch up. My grip tightened around the brass handle until the metal cut into my skin. Somewhere behind me, Christmas music drifted through the old Victorian house, bright and merciless. Someone near the fireplace burst into laughter. Mark\u2019s mother, Patricia, was probably arranging her flawless crystal glasses. His father was likely pouring bourbon while pretending not to stare at me the way he always did whenever Patricia looked elsewhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And my husband \u2014 the man I had loved for ten years \u2014 stood inside a glass room filled with roses, telling another woman not to give up their child.\u201cJust survive Christmas,\u201d Mark said. His tone was warm, intimate, almost eager. \u201cI\u2019ll file after New Year\u2019s. I promise. I can\u2019t keep pretending with Anna forever.\u201dThe floor seemed to tilt beneath me.Apparently I had been pretending too. Pretending not to notice the late nights. Pretending not to hear the softness in his voice whenever he said Jessica\u2019s name. Pretending not to see the new cologne, the guarded phone, the secretive smile that crossed his face whenever his screen lit up during dinner. Jessica Vance. His co-worker. Beautiful. Elegant. Married. The type of woman who shakes your hand while silently calculating how much of your life she can take.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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