The Cost Of Your Last Slap

Summary

After the miscarriage, a quiet, corrosive paranoia took hold of me.

Every single day, I texted Christian, asking him the exact same question: "Do you love me?"

For the first ninety-nine times, his replies were patient, almost sweet—a digital reassurance to keep my fragile mind at bay. But on the hundredth time, his patience finally snapped. He fired back three sharp sentences that left me breathless.

[Nora, don't you have anything better to do?]

[The baby is gone. You don't have to suffer through the pregnancy anymore, so now you've decided to torture me instead?]