She collapsed into Mark’s arms.
He picked her up, princess–style, tossing a
casual line over his shoulder: “I’ll go to the
hospital. We’ll do the wedding later.”
Later? There wouldn’t be a later.
I lay on the floor, clutching my stomach,
staring at the blood spreading beneath me.
My heart was ashes.
L
“My baby… My baby…”
“My stomach hurts…”
As my groom ran off with his first love, my
cries turned my wedding into a farce. Both
families cursed Mark’s name as they rushed
me to the hospital.
The ER doctor’s face paled. As they wheeled
me into surgery, I heard shouts for consults:
miscarriage, hemorrhage. The consent forms
came, but there was no one to sign them.
I clung to consciousness, dialing Mark’s
number over and over. Friends and family,
aware of the situation, tried him too. He
didn’t answer. Just as I was fading, a text
message arrived: “Wendy, stop calling. Tell
everyone to stop. You’re upsetting Sarah. I
won’t have it.”
Upsetting… Sarah…
Our baby was dying, I was dying, and he was
worried about Sarah’s feelings.
Let me die, then. My heart was dead already.
I let the medical staff take over. My last memory was the doctor yelling, “That son of a bitch! Get her into surgery! I’ll take
responsibility…
11
Days later, I sat at home, numb and hollowed
out. Mark walked in, suit jacket slung over his
arm, kicking off his shoes and collapsing onto
the sofa. “Get me some water for my feet.”
<
I didn’t move. I just watched him. He closed
his eyes, waiting for a response that didn’t come. He rubbed his temples. “I’m exhausted.
Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Be
reasonable.”
Before, I would have rushed to his side,
massaging his shoulders, offering comfort.
Now, I felt nothing but a cold emptiness.
“Mark,” I said quietly, “let’s get a divorce.
You’re tired, and so am I.”
I regretted getting legally married first.
Without that certificate, there would have
been no wedding, no humiliating concessions
on my part, no… I touched my stomach. It
was empty, like a piece of my heart had been
carved out.
Mark’s hand froze. He opened his eyes, his
gaze icy. “Wendy, do you think this is funny?”
“Is Sarah a patient? Then why are you making
things difficult for her? Do you even know
that if the cut had been half a millimeter
deeper, she could have died? How can you be
so cold?”
I scoffed. He’d said similar things countless
times. I knew them by heart.
“Oh really? So? Did she die? Last time? The
time before that? Did she ever actually die?”
Any sympathy I’d had was gone, replaced by
disgust. Sympathy for her? Who had
sympathy for me?
Since Sarah’s “illness,” she’d treated my
husband like her personal property, flaunting
it in my face. She wanted everything I had,
<
It started with small things – Valentine’s Day
gifts, flowers, chocolates, cards. She’d
accuse Mark of cheating on her, of not loving
her, in public. Mark, panicked, would give her
the gifts he’d bought for me to appease her.
He’d swear his devotion, and she’d drag him
home, satisfied. That Valentine’s Day, I sat
alone in a hotel room while my husband
consoled another woman. Back then, Mark
still felt guilty. He’d showed up the next
morning with flowers, a pathetic apology.
He’d said she was sick, that he’d leave her
when she got better. I believed him. That
belief cost me everything. I gave in, inch by
inch, until I had nothing left to give. I even
started to gaslight myself, wondering if I was
being unreasonable, lacking compassion. Of
course, that’s exactly what Mark thought too.
I retreated further and further, from anger to
