Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
The kind of crying that happens when your body finally realizes it no longer needs to pretend everything is fine.
Eventually, I picked up the ultrasound, wiped a drop of water from the corner, and placed it inside the kitchen drawer where we kept important papers.
The next morning, Grant texted me.
I need a few days.
I answered:
Take them.
Melissa sent me six messages.
I blocked her.
By day three, grief had begun transforming into something more useful.
Clarity.
I made myself coffee, opened my laptop, and started going through every automatic payment coming out of my personal savings.
Melissa’s insurance.
Canceled.
Diane’s monthly “car contribution.”
Canceled.
The premium grocery subscription delivered to Diane’s home.
Canceled.
Then I reached the biggest recurring payment.
BRIGHTON ACADEMY FAMILY SERVICES — $1,166.67 per month.
Fourteen thousand dollars annually.
Tyler’s tuition.
My finger paused over the trackpad.
Tyler wasn’t responsible for his mother’s behavior.
That was the reason I had kept paying for three years.
But Melissa had accepted $42,000 from me while simultaneously telling Grant that I was irresponsible with money.
I clicked.
CANCEL RECURRING PAYMENT.
For the first time in years, it felt as though I had shut a door instead of standing there holding it open for everyone else.
My phone began ringing the following afternoon.
Melissa.
Again.
Then again.
Eleven calls within two hours.
Diane left three voicemails.
Then Grant texted.
What did you do?
I stared at those words.
Not How are you?
Not Are you feeling okay?
Not even Can we talk about the baby?
What did you do?
Before I could answer, someone started pounding on the apartment door.
“Rachel!”
Melissa.
Naturally.
I walked over and looked through the peephole.
