But the night I gave birth—a grueling, terrifying delivery that nearly ended in an emergency surgery— Caleb wasn’t holding my hand. He wasn’t wiping the sweat from my brow. He was in the hospital hallway, pacing, his phone pressed to his ear. Margaret had summoned him. She requested he meet with her lawyer immediately to “discuss future estate planning” in light of the “new complications.”
He didn’t return until the next morning.
I was holding our newborns, exhausted but filled with that overwhelming, terrifying love that every new mother knows. When the door opened, I looked up, expecting a smile. Expecting tears of joy.
Instead, I saw a stranger.
Caleb stood in the doorway, his designer coat buttoned to the chin, his face pale and expressionless. It was a look I will never forget—cold, distant, already gone.
“Lena… I need space,” he said, his voice void of emotion. “Mom thinks this isn’t the life I’m meant to have. She thinks… she thinks we rushed into this.”
My breath hitsched. “What life?” I whispered, clutching Emma tighter. “Your children are right here. They are a day old, Caleb .”
He didn’t even look at them. He couldn’t. If he looked at them, the facade might crack.
“I can’t do this, Lena ,” he muttered, backing away into the corridor. “I’m moving back to the estate for a while. Just to think.”
Leave a Comment