While You Stayed With Her, I Buried My Parents

The day I miscarried and hemorrhaged, my parents drove through a downpour to reach the hospital. They never made it. Their car was hit on the way.

I lay on the operating table and signed their surgical consent forms with hands still slick with my own blood.

I couldn't save the baby. I couldn't save my parents either.

The man I'd called seventy-six times without an answer had posted a celebration on Instagram.

Congrats to our little Sweetie! One long night, and she's finally a mama.

Too weak to do anything else, I tapped "like." He messaged me immediately.

Two words: Delete that.

I sent him my hospital location pin.

Come to the hospital. I need to tell you something in person.

I have something important to deal with. I can't come! Ask your parents to go with you to the checkup. It's not like they have anything better to do.

Your important thing is delivering puppies for her dog?

Since when did being pregnant turn you into a jealous shrew? You're seriously jealous of a dog?

I didn't have the strength to argue. If he wouldn't come, he could talk to my lawyer.

By the time I'd finished arranging my parents' funerals, it was the following evening.

I dragged myself to the front door and pushed it open.

The apartment I'd carefully tidied was destroyed. Everything pulled out, thrown around, left where it landed.

Wilfred Farley was hunched over, rummaging through something, tossing whatever he picked up onto the floor without a second glance.

The carelessness of someone who'd always had another person to clean up after him.

He didn't look up when the door opened. His voice carried a note of irritation.

It's the weekendwhere have you been all day? I had to order in for lunch.

I stared at him. So he hadn't come home last night either.

Two years of this.

When Carrie Butler's apartment light broke, he could roll out of bed at two in the morning to fix it for her.

But he'd leave our own front door unlocked behind him, letting some drunk stumble in, leaving me with nightmares that lasted a solid month.

When Carrie's dog went into labor, he could refuse to come to my prenatal checkup.

But he'd take a full week off to be by her side, doing a job that should have been a vet's.

When I didn't respond, Wilfred finally looked at me. Surprise flickered across his face.

You're white as a sheet. Is the baby giving you trouble again?

I stepped back, away from the hand he was reaching toward my stomach. My voice was flat.

I called you seventy-six times yesterday. Why didn't you pick up?

His hand hung in the air. He frowned.

Freya Gibson, are you interrogating me right now?

Carrie and I are childhood friends. And that dog isn't just some pet in her shop. She raised it since it was a puppy. They have a bond.

The dog was in labor. Carrie was worried sick. I had to be there. That's life or death. You think I had time to answer your pointless calls?

It was just a checkup. Plenty of pregnant women go alone. And you've got your parents. They're not exactly busy. What difference does it make if I'm not there?

I looked at him standing there, so sure of himself.

I wanted to ask: And what about my parents?

The crash had been brutal. My father had no vital signs by the time the ambulance reached the hospital.

My mother made it into surgery, but her injuries were severe and complex.

Wilfred's colleague told me that only he, operating himself, might have given her a chance.

He said he'd had no time to answer my calls. But the second I liked that Instagram post, he'd found time to order me to take it back.

Afraid Carrie might read something into it.

Are you really just childhood friends?

Because I saw you kiss her, Wilfred.

In the same restaurant where he'd proposed to me. At the exact same table.

I'd been so shaken I didn't see the motorcycle speeding toward me.

The rider braked in time. But the life inside me, barely three months along, was already gone.

Panic flickered through Wilfred Farley's eyes, those eyes that were always so controlled.

Carrie was so worried about the puppy that I took her out to clear her head. She had a few too many drinks and

His tone softened a fraction:

Anyway, forget about that. I'll be there for the next prenatal appointment, I promise.

Again. The same routine.

A flimsy excuse to wave me off, then something sweet to smooth it over, as if none of it ever happened.

But Wilfred, you will never need to come to another appointment with me.

Don't bother. Let's get a divorce.

He froze for a second, then his face twisted with anger.

Freya, is this some reporter thing? Blowing everything out of proportion? I told you it was an accident. Do you really have to make a federal case out of it?

And let's be honest here. You're pushing thirty, you're pregnant, and right now you're nothing but a logistics grunt at the station. Who else is going to want you besides me?

I break my back at that hospital every single day for this family, and I don't come home to deal with you picking fights for no reason!

He stormed toward the door.

Passing the entryway, his gaze snagged on the corner of a document poking out of my bag.

The words were perfectly legible. Death certificate.

Wilfred turned back, confused.

Who died?

He reached for the paper, about to pull it out and read it.

But his phone rang. Carrie's voice came through, small and choked with tears.

Wil, one of the puppies might be choking on milk. There are customers in the shop and I just can't handle everything at once.

It's not going to die, is it? I'm so scared

Wilfred's face went taut with worry.

Don't cry. I'm on my way.

And just like that, he left. Didn't look back once.

Didn't even lock his study, the room he never liked me setting foot in.

Something pulled me inside. Then something under the desk cut right through me.

That year, I'd been the station's most promising new reporter. I'd been assigned to interview the retiring hospital director.

But the old man was proud and stubborn. He turned me away at the door.

Days of back-to-back shifts caught up with me, and my blood sugar crashed. I passed out in the garden.

It was Wilfred who found me, who helped me up. He told me the old director was set in his ways and wouldn't change his mind.

I'd hung my head, defeated. Then the next second, something sweet was being pushed past my lips. A tangerine candy.

Wilfred gave me a playful wink.

But I do admire people who take their work seriously. So how about this: interview me instead.

I found out later that he was the youngest medical professor in the city.

Countless people had tried and failed to land an interview with the brilliant young prodigy. He'd made an exception only for me.

That was how Wilfred and I began.

Later, we both grew busier and busier. One evening he looked at me with difficulty in his eyes.

Freya, I know becoming a top journalist is your dream.

But the older folks at home need someone looking after them. Could you step back from work? I promise I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

And I knew just as well that becoming the finest doctor he could be was his dream.

So I gave in.

I didn't quit. I transferred to the logistics department instead, somewhere lighter, because at least that way I could stay close to the work I loved.

On so many sleepless nights, I'd sit under the lamp and run my thumb over my press credential.

Every time Wilfred caught me doing it, guilt would flood his face, and he'd promise me again that he'd be good to me.

Now that same credential, the one I'd treasured more than almost anything, was shoved under the corner of his desk to keep it from wobbling.

I opened his safe with Carrie's birthday.

On top was a thick manila envelope.

Inside, photographs. All kinds.

The two of them embracing. Kissing. Walking hand in hand along a beach.

Beneath the photos, receipts. An apartment he'd bought Carrie. The startup capital for her shop. Her renovations.

The business lost money every single month, and still he covered the gap.

The handwriting on the folder was Wilfred's.

I will always clear the path for your dreams.

I stared at that line for a long, long time.

Five years flashed through my mind. Caring for his parents. Cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. Keeping his house running.

I thought about the envy that cut through me every time I saw my old colleagues burning with passion, pulling late nights to prep their interview scripts.

I laughed out loud.

So he did know how to protect someone's dreams.

I photographed everything, put it all back, and finally made my decision.

Hey, SelmaI heard the station's looking for someone to go to Central Asia as a war correspondent. Nobody's signed up yet.

If you'll have me, I want to go.

A beat of silence. Then her voice lit up.

Yes! I always thought it was a waste when you transferred to logistics. This is a rare opportunity. It could be dangerous, but when you come back, your rsum will be a different story entirely.

Get yourself ready. You leave in a few days.

I hung up and started packing.

There was nothing left in this house I cared about.

Except the sweater. The last one my mother ever knitted for me. I was taking that.

She'd knitted me plenty of clothes when I was little. As I grew up, she got older. Her eyes weren't what they used to be.

I didn't want her straining herself, so I told her to stop.

Then I got pregnant, and suddenly I couldn't stand the cold.

She went and knitted me one anyway, in secret. Her eyes were bloodshot from the work, but she just waved me off.

Homemade is warmer. I picked out the best yarn myself.

You fuss over the baby in your belly, and I fuss over mine.

It hurt and it warmed me at the same time. I never could bring myself to wear it.

But now the sweater was gone.

I remembered the scene when I'd come home. I was about to call Wilfred and ask.

Then I saw Carrie's new Instagram post.

Hehe, I just said the babies were cold since they were just born, and a certain someone showed up with a sweater~

Thanking Daddy on behalf of the babies~ And of course, this Mommy's alteration skills aren't too shabby either.

So that's where Wilfred had gone. To celebrate a birthday party for her puppies.

In the photo, their heads were pressed together, bodies close.

Each of them cradling three puppies.

And I recognized it instantly.

The little dog outfits on those puppies had been cut from my mother's sweater.

When I pushed open the glass door of the pet shop, Wilfred and Carrie were sharing a spoon over a slice of cake.

Wilfred was a severe germaphobe.

At home, his dishes had to be sterilized and stored separately. He never shared utensils at meals.

Once, after I'd spent an entire day cleaning the house, I was so parched I grabbed his cup and took a sip of water.

He didn't say anything at the time. That night, the cup was in the trash.

He'd explained it afterward. Said it was a professional habit from the hospital.

Turns out the habit was selective.

Carrie spotted me and arched a brow, her smile dripping with fake sweetness.

Oh, Freya! You're here? Wilfred and I have been like this since we were kids, we never really had boundaries. Don't mind it, okay?

Wilfred, what did I tell you? She'd never actually go through with the divorce.

I mean, a woman whose career tanked, who can only survive off her husband's charity? Without you, how's she going to raise a kid and support her parents? And look, she tracked you all the way here. Clingy much.

Sigh. Compared to that, I guess my skin's just too thin. Nothing for me to do but keep being an independent girl boss~

Wilfred pinched her nose, indulgent and fond.

Always the clever one, aren't you? Been a little troublemaker since we were kids.

Then he turned to me, wearing the expression of a man forgiving a child who didn't know better.

Alright, Freya. Since you came here to make peace, I'll pretend I never heard that talk about divorce.

Go home and tidy up the house. These puppies were just born and they're still unstable. I need to stay with Carrie and monitor them for a few more days.

Listening to the two of them, I almost laughed.

One played the mistress without a shred of shame.

The other gift-wrapped his affair in righteousness.

I didn't bother responding to Wilfred. I just gave him a thin, mocking smile.

Since Miss Butler is so talented, stealing husbands is one thing, but did she really have to team up with mine to steal my clothes too?

Tell me, is this so-called strong independent woman act of yours for the home-wrecker community specifically?

A few women browsing the pet supplies aisle turned to stare at Carrie.

Wait, so this guy isn't your boyfriend? Then you two sharing a spoon earlierthat's kind of weird, isn't it?

Right? I literally just said you two made a cute couple, and you didn't deny it. Turns out he has a wife?

Carrie's face flushed deep red, cornered.

The women looked her up and down with open disgust, set their chosen merchandise back on the shelves, and walked out.

Carrie's eyes rimmed red. She turned to Wilfred, aggrieved, and let him have it.

Wil, did she come here just to wreck my shop?

I only thought that sweater was warm and soft, perfect for the puppies. She already spends so much of your money, she can have any clothes she wants. Why is she smearing me like this?

Those were all regular customers. How are they going to see me now? How am I supposed to run a business after this?

Wilfred wiped her tears, aching for her, then turned to glare at me.

Freya, I'm the one who took the sweater. Why are you taking it out on Carrie? It's not like it was worth anything. When did you get this petty?

You're going to get bigger as the pregnancy goes on and won't fit into it anyway. Just have your mom knit you another one.

It's not some priceless designer piece. Why are you acting like it's sacred?!

That look on his face. Superior. Contemptuous.

I couldn't take it anymore. I slapped him and screamed.

Yes, what my mother made IS sacred! Because she can never knit me another one!

While you were here playing house with your precious childhood friend, while you'd rather watch her dog give birth than pick up my calls for help, my parents died!

Wilfred's eyes went wide. His arms dropped from Carrie on reflex.

What did you say? How could your parents

Before he could finish, Carrie shoved me hard.

Who do you think you are, hitting people?!

It's just a ratty old sweater! Nobody wants it. Here, take it back!

She ripped the sweater off the puppies and hurled it into a litter box the shop assistant was about to carry out.

Parents dead? Please. I ran into your mom and dad at the grocery store this morning!

I can't stand women like you, using a pregnancy as a free pass to lie, throw tantrums, and manipulate your husband every way you can. You're an embarrassment to all of us women!

The litter box hadn't been cleaned.

Clumps of waste clung to the wool, the stench rising thick and foul.

My mother's love, ruined beyond recognition.

II didn't mean to, I didn't know the owner was going to

The shop assistant shrank back from my bloodshot stare, too frightened to move.

Rage and hatred seared through me, scorching me from the inside out.

I turned and raised my hand high toward the woman who started all of this.

But before my palm could reach Carrie's face,

Wilfred's slap found mine first.

The crack rang out through the silent shop.

I stumbled, my right cheek burning, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears.

I looked up in disbelief.

Wilfred seemed startled by what he'd done, staring at me with shock in his eyes.

But the moment he caught Carrie's reddened eyes in his peripheral vision,

that shock turned to disappointment and disgust.

Freya, what gives you the right to touch Carrie? Because she called out your lie? And to think you were once a journalist who lived for the truth.

Cursing your own parents now? Aren't you afraid of karma? Think about the baby you're carrying and try to be a decent human being.

Either apologize, or take your junk and get out. Make another scene and I'm calling the police.

By the time I made it home, clutching that pile of fabric, I was soaked through from the downpour.

Shivering with cold.

The rain had diluted the filth on the cloth, leaving it shapeless and ruined, like a dirty rag.

It was supposed to keep me warm the way Mom used to.

I sat motionless through the night. At first light, I tore the amicable divorce agreement I'd drafted into pieces.

Wilfred was right about one thing: a journalist's duty is to show the world the truth.

How could I possibly let him down?

Late that night, something cool and herbal-smelling touched my cheek.

I opened my eyes. Wilfred was sitting there with a jar of ointment, guilt written across his face.

Freya, does it still hurt?

I'm sorry. I lost my temper today. But you shouldn't have said those things about Carrie in front of her customers.

She's an unmarried woman trying to run a business. That kind of talk could ruin her.

I brushed his hand away. My voice was flat.

And?

Wilfred pressed his lips together, then ventured carefully:

So could you apologize to her publicly? Just say you were affected by pregnancy hormones, that you weren't in your right mind, that everything you said was nonsense.

The day after tomorrow is the second anniversary of Carrie's pet shop. You know a lot of bloggers, don't you? Maybe you could help promote the store for free while you're at it.

For one sickening moment, the herbal ointment smelled worse than cat litter.

Wilfred. I'm only going to ask you this once. Are you sure?

He dropped his gaze, unable to look at me, but his voice was strangely firm.

Carrie's been crying nonstop. Think of it as making it up to her. And think of it as building good karma for our baby.

If you agree, I promise I'll go to every single prenatal appointment with you from now on. I'll make it up to you and the baby, double.

I studied his face in silence.

I couldn't find the man I'd married anywhere in it.

After a long time, I smiled.

Fine.

Wilfred's face lit up and he reached for me, but his phone kept buzzing with messages.

I didn't need to look to know who it was.

Sure enough, he chose Carrie again, and left.

But I wasn't hurt anymore.

A few minutes later, Carrie called.

Freya, how pathetic are you?

Pregnant and still can't sit still, playing the victim so Wil would come check on you. And what happened? One crook of my finger and he came running right back to me.

If it weren't for that thing in your belly, he'd have thrown you out a long time ago!

Before, I would have hung up immediately.

But this time, I rested my hand on my flat, empty stomach and let out a cold laugh.

Right. And as you just pointed out, I'm carrying his child. Wilfred's parents care about keeping the family intact, and he cares about his reputation.

If I had to guess, he uses protection every time he sleeps with you. Am I wrong?

Carrie went dead silent. That told me everything.

Then you should know that as long as I have this baby, he will never leave me for you.

Men can play around all they want out there. In the end, they always come home.

Oh, he also just told me that once our baby is born, he's putting everything in the child's name. You won't get a single cent.

As for you, you're just a toy my husband plays with while I'm too pregnant to bother. Really, I should be thanking you.

Furious panting came through the phone.

Don't get so smug. I will make him divorce you!

And she didn't disappoint.

Half an hour later, she sent me the video of herself in bed with Wilfred.

Complete with a taunting voice message.

Freya, what exactly are you so proud of? All I had to do was shed a few tears and he agreed to give me a baby.

So we didn't use protection today. Once I'm pregnant, you and that little bastard in your belly can pack your bags.

I didn't reply.

Wasting even one more word on an idiot wasn't worth my time.

Two days later, Wilfred paid out of his own pocket to throw a second-anniversary celebration for Carrie's pet shop at a hotel.

The guest list included friends they shared, his favorite colleagues, and Carrie's loyal customers.

Before anyone even walked in, Carrie had announced to the entire room that I would be issuing her a public apology via livestream today.

When the time came, Wilfred nodded to the technician at the control station, signaling to begin.

The screen lit up, and my face appeared.

Hello, everyone. At my husband's request, I'm here today to formally apologize to Miss Butler.

Carrie's eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a winner.

Then I smiled.

I'm sorry that when I received the video of you sleeping with my husband, I couldn't help myself and threw up. I failed to respect your dignity as a mistress.

To make it up to you, I'll do exactly what you wanted and give you and your blogger friends some free publicity.

Now, please enjoy the show and witness this grand, filthy affair for yourselves.