I was too exhausted to understand. My hair was soaked, my hands were shaking, and my body felt like it had been split open by grief and pain. I had driven myself to the hospital at dawn, one hand on the wheel, the other pressed against my stomach, begging my baby to wait.
He didn’t.***
Three months earlier, my husband, Julian Vance, had thrown divorce papers onto our dining table while his mother, Eleanor, stood behind him like a queen watching an execution.
“You’re pregnant,” I said, staring at the papers.
Julian adjusted his silver watch. “That’s unfortunate timing.”
Eleanor smiled. “Don’t be dramatic, Vivian. Men like my son don’t stay trapped by women who get pregnant to secure money.”
I laughed once, because the insult was too ugly to cry over.
“I never asked for your money.”
