But I had already carried enough for this family.
Their expenses.
Their excuses.
Their discomfort.
I refused to carry one more truth alone.
I took out the ultrasound and set it beside Grant’s dinner plate.
“I’m nine weeks pregnant.”
All the color disappeared from his face.
Melissa stared down at the photograph.
“You’re lying.”
I met her eyes.
“Dr. Laura Bennett at Northwestern can confirm it if Grant requires confirmation.”
“Rachel—”
“I wanted to tell you tonight.”
The entire room remained frozen.
Then Diane whispered, “Oh, dear God.”
At the time, I assumed she was simply shocked by the pregnancy.
Months later, I understood that Diane had not been shocked.
She had been frightened.
Grant left the apartment that night.
Not for good, according to him.
He simply needed “space to think.”
Apparently, his mother’s guest room was the ideal place to decide whether staying married to his pregnant wife was worthwhile.
I didn’t try to stop him.
Once the apartment door shut behind him, the silence was so complete that I could hear the refrigerator running.
I went back into the dining room.
Five plates.
Half a pot roast.
One ultrasound nobody had touched.
I lowered myself into a chair and cried.
Not loudly.
