Five years ago, I stood at the doorway of the home I built with my husband, Nathan Evans. One hand gripped a worn suitcase; the other rested gently over my belly. Though my fingers trembled, my voice was steady.
“I’m done,” Nathan said without looking at me. His tone was cold, final.“You’re holding me back, Claire,” he added, adjusting the silver cufflinks I gave him on our second anniversary. “You don’t belong in the life I’m building.”
Those words cut deep.
I was a simple music teacher, someone who found joy in small things. Nathan, though, had changed. His world was now dinners with wealthy investors and expensive suits. I watched the man I loved become a stranger who no longer saw me.
What he didn’t know? I was pregnant.
But I didn’t tell him.
I was proud, broken, and maybe still hopeful that someday he’d realize what he’d lost.
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