On our wedding anniversary, I made two decisions.

First, I would get a divorce.

Second, I would terminate this pregnancy.

I opened my phone calendar and set a countdown.

Thirty days.

Within thirty days, I would take care of both matters. Thirty days from now, I would walk away from this failed marriage for good.

The moment I made that decision, the suffocating weight that had been pressing on my chest for so long felt, for the first time, slightly lighter.

During a brief lull in patients, I opened the hospital's appointment system and booked an appointment for myself. The procedure was scheduled for five days later.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds.

The hospital intercom suddenly rang. "Patient 32, Isabella Hart, please proceed to Examination Room 3."

I instinctively looked up—and froze completely.

A man in a white pilot's uniform was carefully supporting a pregnant woman as they walked toward me.

It was my husband, Jameson Blake, the youngest Gold-Rated Captain at North Atlantic Airlines.

Even in a crowd, he was impossible to miss—tall and imposing, broad-shouldered, with sharply defined features and a perpetually calm, composed expression.

He was also the man I had loved for nearly ten years.

But at that moment, his hand was resting gently on another woman's lower back, as if she were something precious he couldn't afford to let go of.

Her name was Isabella Hart.

I knew who she was. I had seen her photo before—inside Jameson's wallet.

A small ID picture, its edges worn and softened from frequent handling, as though it had been taken out and looked at countless times.

That was how I learned that Jameson and Isabella had dated in high school, before breaking up five years ago.

Afterward, Isabella went abroad and married someone else.

And the day she registered that marriage was the very same day Jameson proposed to me.

Just then, Jameson looked up.

The moment our eyes met, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

He stopped mid-step. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to explain something.

It was rare to see hesitation in him—but it was there.

I said nothing. I asked nothing. Only my hand tightened faintly around the pen I was holding.

Then Isabella suddenly looped her arm through his with an affectionate smile.

"Jameson, you came straight to the hospital with me after landing," she said lightly. "You're going to exhaust yourself like this."

"It's fine," he replied, looking down at her.

Then he handed me her registration form.

I lowered my gaze and stood up. "Come with me."

During the examination, Isabella glanced around nervously.

"I hate hospitals," she said, pouting. "Doctor, could you be a little gentler? I'm really scared of pain."

I was about to explain that a routine prenatal checkup didn't hurt at all.

But Jameson spoke first. "Please be gentle with her, Dr. Monroe."

His voice was calm—too calm.

"Isabella has always had poor health. She's been afraid of pain since she was a child." He paused. "And she's allergic to penicillin."

My fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before continuing.

His words lodged in my throat like a fishbone.

Because he remembered.

He remembered what Isabella feared.

He remembered what she couldn't take.

He remembered every small detail about her.

Yet everything I had spent three years trying to make him remember—he had forgotten without hesitation.

I had a sensitive stomach, but even after three years of marriage, he still forgot I couldn't handle spicy food.

But Isabella?

Even after five years apart, he still remembered her penicillin allergy.

For the rest of the examination, I didn't say another word.

Until my eyes fell on the screen.

Thirty-two weeks. Eight months. Almost full term.

In that instant, it felt as if something had clamped tightly around my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Still, I didn't ask whose child it was. I didn't ask why they were together. I didn't ask why he had hidden any of this from me.

After the exam, Jameson visibly relaxed, as though bracing for an outburst that never came.

He was clearly expecting me to break down—to cry, to demand answers.

That used to be me. That used to be exactly what I would have done.

Any woman who appeared at Jameson's side once drove me to the edge of my sanity.

But not anymore.

Whether it was this marriage or this relationship, I no longer wanted to fight alone to hold it together. I also no longer wanted to keep accepting what was already breaking.

Perhaps someone else had already given Jameson the home he truly wanted.

Before leaving, he glanced back at me, confusion flashing in his eyes—as if he couldn't understand my calm.

I simply lowered my head and continued entering the next patient's information.

That evening, when I returned home, Jameson was already there.

That was rare.

He must have just come back; he was still in his pilot uniform, holding a gift box.

"This is for you," he said.

I took it, and he added, "About today… Isabella and I just happened to run into each other."

His tone was steady. "She's pregnant, and it wasn't convenient for her to be alone, so I gave her a ride."

He paused. "The child isn't mine. Don't overthink it."

I looked at him.

To be honest, I no longer knew whether I could believe him.

Because with Isabella, he had never been transparent with me from the beginning.

I opened my mouth, thinking of how to tell him I wanted a divorce—and how I was giving up the baby.

But before I could speak, his phone lit up.

Caller ID: Isabella Hart.

Jameson glanced at it, then quickly turned the screen away—too quickly, almost defensively.

"The airline has a last-minute meeting," he said, grabbing his keys. "Go to bed early if you're tired."

And then he left.

The room fell into silence.

"Jameson," I called after him.

I walked to the desk and placed the documents I had prepared long ago in front of him. "I found an apartment I like."

If you're lying to me, then I can lie too. That only seems fair.

Jameson didn't even look at them. He flipped straight to the last page and signed, his movements smooth and careless.

"If you like it, just buy it."

Then he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to my forehead.

"Wait for me to come back."

The door closed behind him.

Silence swallowed the room.

I looked down at the name on the divorce agreement, then slowly placed my hand over my lower abdomen.

"I'm sorry, baby," I whispered. "Mommy can't bring you into a home built on someone else's love."

I curled up on the couch, one hand pressed to my stomach.

The apartment was enormous, and eerily quiet.

That heavy silence pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I had always thought divorcing Jameson would be hard—painful, drawn-out, something that would break me piece by piece.

But it had only been a day. Just one day. And I had already scheduled an abortion and received the signed divorce papers.

I was lost in thought when my phone screen suddenly lit up with a friend request.

I stared at the name for a few seconds, my heart sinking.

I didn't even need to open it to know who it was.

Isabella Hart.

And sure enough, the moment I tapped "Accept," her latest Instagram post appeared.

My finger froze.

The caption read: "Thank you for staying up so late with me and the baby to set up our new home. A new life is about to begin."

Below it was a photo—Isabella in a loose beige sweater, her pregnancy already visibly advanced. A man's strong hand rested protectively on her belly.

I recognized that hand. It was Jameson's.

I glanced at the time: 12:37 a.m.

Jameson was helping his first love move into her new place, while our wedding anniversary had already come and gone.

He hadn't mentioned it once. Not a single word.

The dark screen of my phone reflected my red-rimmed eyes.

I smiled faintly and tapped "Like."

Then I sat there for a long time before slowly standing up.

For the first time in five years, I didn't wait for Jameson to come home.

I put the gift he had given me into the display cabinet and went to take a shower.

I didn't even need to open it to know what was inside—it was Isabella's favorite perfume.

Once, she had talked about that fragrance for an entire evening. I remembered every word.

Apparently, so did Jameson.

I had thought he wouldn't come home that night.

So when the mattress dipped beside me at three in the morning, I almost thought I was dreaming.

A pair of arms wrapped around my waist from behind.

Jameson pulled me into his embrace, his voice low and tired. "Why didn't you wait for me this time?"

My body stiffened slightly.

Because the next second, I smelled it—a woman's perfume. Sweet, heavy, cloying. So thick it burned my nose. So familiar it made my stomach turn.

My throat tightened. "I was just tired."

I shifted slightly, creating a bit of distance between us.

His arms tightened for a moment… then relaxed.

"Are you mad?" he asked quietly.

I stared into the darkness. "No."

A few seconds passed before Jameson let out a soft sigh.

"Sorry. I was busy yesterday—I forgot our anniversary." His tone softened. "I'll pick you up after work tonight. We'll have dinner and make it up to you."

"Okay." I was suddenly grateful for the dark, because he couldn't see my eyes.

But he frowned slightly. "What's been going on with you lately? You seem distant."

Distant?

I almost laughed.

Compared to him, my distance didn't even count.

"I've just been tired," I said, turning away from him. "Let's sleep."

After a moment of silence, the covers were pulled back.

Cold air rushed in.

He got out of bed, and soon I heard the bedroom door close behind him.

I opened my eyes.

From beginning to end, he hadn't even noticed the pregnancy test on the nightstand. Not once.

I lay there staring at the ceiling until dawn, unable to sleep.

The next day, I forced myself to go to work at the hospital despite my exhaustion.

In the evening, a colleague asked, "Working late again?"

I thought of Jameson's promise and shook my head. "No."

As soon as I stepped outside, my phone rang.

Jameson.

I stared at the name for a few seconds before answering.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "Something came up with the airline. I'll have to make it up to you another time."

I closed my eyes briefly.

After enough disappointment, it really does start to numb you.

"Okay."

After hanging up, I went to a nearby mall. I pushed a shopping cart slowly through the aisles. Just as I was picking out vegetables, a familiar voice came from nearby.

"You can't eat lychees."

My body stiffened. I turned slowly—and saw Jameson and Isabella.

Jameson had just taken a pack of lychees from her hands and placed them back on the shelf.

"You can have as many as you want later," he said calmly. "Just not now."

Isabella pouted. "But I want them now."

Then she smiled and wrapped her arms around him.

"You're so gentle," she said, looking up at him. "You're going to be such a good father."

A sharp pain shot through my chest. My hand moved instinctively to my lower abdomen.

If Jameson knew I was pregnant too… would he treat me like that? Would he be this careful with me too?

Then Isabella spotted me.

"Dr. Carter?" Her eyes lit up. "Oh my god, what a coincidence!"

She walked over and took my hand. "I never got the chance to thank you after my last checkup."

I looked at her, confused. Yesterday she had added me on social media and messaged me directly—yet now she was acting as if we had never met.

Frowning, I gently pulled my hand back.

But she suddenly stumbled backward. "Ah—"

Jameson caught her immediately, his expression darkening as he looked at me. "What are you doing? She's pregnant."

I stared at him in disbelief.

Was he really that protective of her? So much that he couldn't see through something so obvious?

I dug my nails into my palm. "Weren't you supposed to be working overtime?"

Something flickered across his face—guilt, quickly hidden.

Isabella blinked. "Wait… you know each other?"

I looked at Jameson. He avoided my gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line, saying nothing.

In that moment, I understood everything.

He wasn't going to tell her I was his wife.

A cold laugh escaped me. "No. We don't know each other."

Then I turned and pushed my cart away.

As Jameson and I passed each other, I clearly caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes—followed almost immediately by tension.

What was he surprised about?

Surprised to see me here? Or surprised that I actually existed within the same space as him?

Or maybe he was just surprised to see me at all.

I didn't stop.

The shopping cart rolled slowly across the polished floor, its wheels humming in a steady, monotonous rhythm. Still, I could feel his gaze on my back the entire time—tight, unbroken, yet never truly closing the distance.

Until a familiar female voice cut through the silence.

"Jameson… I don't feel very well. My stomach hurts."

It was Isabella. Her voice was soft, delicate—just the right amount of vulnerability.

"Don't worry. I'll take you to the hospital," Jameson replied instantly.

The controlled calm in his tone disappeared in an instant, replaced by immediate concern—sharp, unhesitating, absolute.

And just like that, his attention snapped away from me, clean and decisive, as if it had never lingered there in the first place.

My steps slowed for half a beat. By the time I turned back, they were already gone, leaving only a single abandoned cart behind—like evidence of something that had never been important enough to claim.

I let out a quiet laugh and pushed my own cart toward the checkout.

The night air was cold.

I stood by the roadside waiting for a taxi, holding two heavy shopping bags. The plastic handles cut into my fingers until they turned red, but I didn't loosen my grip.

When I got home, I still made dinner. I plated the food neatly, as if following some quiet, habitual ritual.

But after the third bite, I set my chopsticks down.

My appetite was gone. My body felt wrong—alternating chills and heat rolling through me, as if I were coming down with a fever, or slowly falling out of balance with myself. I didn't think much of it. I simply stood up and went to bed.

I don't know how long I slept before I felt someone touch my forehead.

"Why do you have a fever?"

A deep voice brushed against my ear. Then a cool palm pressed to my skin—so real it pulled me out of sleep instantly.

I opened my eyes.

Jameson was sitting by the bed.

He was back.

For a second, I froze, then instinctively grabbed his sleeve.

"You're back…" My voice was hoarse. "Weren't you supposed to take Isabella to the hospital?"

Jameson didn't answer right away. He stood, went to the medicine cabinet, and came back with fever reducers and a glass of warm water. His movements were practiced—efficient, familiar—but emotionally distant.

"I just dropped her off," he said. "I didn't stay. Take your medicine."

He brought the water toward my lips. "Be good. You'll feel better after you take it."

His tone sounded like comfort. Or maybe just habit.

I turned my head away. "I don't want to take it."

I was pregnant. I couldn't take medication carelessly. My hand moved unconsciously to my lower abdomen. For a brief moment, I even wondered—if he asked, could I tell him?

Could I say we were having a child?

Maybe then he would look at me a little longer. Even just a little.

But Jameson's expression cooled instantly. He set the glass down and placed the medicine back on the nightstand.

"As a doctor, you should know better than anyone what happens when you ignore a fever."

His words were crisp and final.

Whatever fragile hope had begun to form inside me shattered immediately.

I almost wanted to ask him—was he this detached with Isabella too?

But in the end, I only gave a faint, self-mocking smile.

"Jameson, you don't need to teach me how to be a doctor."

Even I was surprised I said it.

The room went quiet.

He frowned slightly, as if trying to recall something. "Are you upset I didn't have lunch with you today?"

My throat tightened.

Before I could respond, his phone rang.

He looked at the screen, then stood and walked out to answer it.

I already knew who it was.

Isabella. The only person who could pull him away mid-sentence, mid-life.

When he came back, something had shifted in him. He looked more restless now, more urgent.

He sat by the bed again. "Pregnant women shouldn't be careless with medication. How do you usually treat a fever?"

My heart skipped.

For a moment, I thought he had figured it out.

But then he added, "Isabella caught a cold and she's been feeling nauseous. I'm just asking."

In that instant, something inside my chest tightened painfully.

While speaking, he had already lowered his head and searched: "what to do about severe morning sickness."

He forwarded the results to her.

"Pregnant women shouldn't take medication lightly. I can't leave right now, so you'll have to take care of yourself."

He said it naturally.

Yet moments earlier, he had given me a single fever pill and left without another glance.

Even now, his attention kept drifting back to his phone—waiting, checking, responding.

Waiting for her.

I closed my eyes.

I didn't want to see anymore.

When I woke again, the sky was just beginning to brighten. The room was empty.

The fever medicine still sat on the bedside table. Jameson was gone.

I picked up my phone.

The countdown read: 24 days remaining.

At 5 a.m., Isabella had posted an update.

You're always there when I need you most.

In the photo, she leaned against Jameson's shoulder in a hospital bed, an IV in her arm, her expression soft and satisfied—like someone who had already won something that never truly required a competition.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I looked away.

This quiet, empty house suddenly felt absurd.

If he couldn't let go of Isabella, why did he marry me?

Was it to prove he could divide his love? Or simply to give me the role of something temporary and replaceable?

My phone vibrated.

A hospital message: "Confirm tomorrow's abortion procedure?"

My fingers paused for only a second.

"Confirmed," I replied.

Then I opened another tab and booked a flight.

Rome.

Departure: the day after the divorce proceedings were finalized.

I used to really want to go to Rome.

Right after we got married, Jameson mentioned it almost casually.

"Scarlett, once things calm down, let's go to Rome for our honeymoon."

He said it like it was something simple—something that would happen sooner or later without question.

But after that, neither of us ever brought it up again.

His work and mine ran on parallel tracks that never quite met. Busyness slowly carved our time into fragments, and the plans that were supposed to belong to "us" quietly faded into silence.

So the trip to Rome stayed on hold.

No arguments, no explicit disappointment—just an unspoken understanding that one day, we simply stopped talking about it.

But now it's different. Now I can go anywhere I want, on my own.

My phone lit up with a notification: my flight had been successfully booked and paid for.

At that moment, the door opened.

Jameson came home as if nothing had happened. He walked over and reached out to touch my forehead.

"You're still running a slight fever," he said softly. "Are you still not feeling well?"

I didn't ask where he had been.

We were both very good at avoiding certain questions. So good it had become instinct.

I stayed quiet for a moment, then asked anyway, "If I said I didn't feel well, would you stay with me?"

He paused. Clearly, he hadn't expected that.

I had always been the independent one—rarely showing weakness. Whenever I was sick, I would just smile and say, "I'm fine."

He was probably used to that version of me. Not this one asking him to stay.

I looked at him, didn't wait for an answer, and let out a small laugh.

"Forget it," I said lightly. "You don't need to. I don't need you to stay with me all the time."

As soon as I said it, his expression shifted slightly. Then he pulled me into his arms—sudden, almost forceful.

"We're married," he said, his voice low. "How could I not stay with you?"

He paused, then added, as if to make it clearer, "I'll always be with you. Until we're old and gray. Until the end of our lives."

In the past, those words would have stayed with me for days. I might have treated them like a promise, replaying them over and over in my mind.

But not anymore.

Because in just over twenty days, everything would be over.

And when you're living inside a countdown, even vows start to feel meaningless.

He said nothing else after that.

In the days that followed, he remained busy as always. But he came home less and less. Every visit was brief—he would arrive, receive a call, and leave again. Always with a reasonable explanation. Always beyond reproach.

I stopped asking.

Some things are clearer when left unspoken. Asking only makes everything more uncomfortable.

With twenty days left on the countdown, I went to the hospital for a procedure—an abortion.

While discussing arrangements with my colleague, I saw them: Jameson and Isabella.

They were sitting on a bench in the corridor. Isabella sat close to him, one hand resting lightly over her lower abdomen. She looked up at him occasionally while speaking, her face bright with soft anticipation.

And Jameson was smiling.

It wasn't his usual polite or restrained smile. It was relaxed—genuine, like someone who had finally found a place where he didn't have to be on guard.

My colleague followed my gaze and murmured, "They look good together. Their baby will probably be really cute."

I didn't respond.

It just felt like something had driven straight through my chest.

Then I looked away.

"Let's go," I said.

After the pre-op examination, my colleague hesitated before speaking again. "The baby is healthy. Are you sure you don't want to reconsider? Maybe talk to the father?"

Talk to him?

I almost laughed.

If he cared, he wouldn't be sitting outside right now with another woman for her appointment.

I shook my head. "No need."

Then I signed the consent form. In the "emergency contact / family signature" line, I wrote my own name.

My hand trembled slightly as I wrote each character, but I didn't stop.

The operating room was cold.

I lay on the table staring at the ceiling lights while voices moved around me—distant, muffled, unreal. Machines hummed softly. The procedure began.

I felt no pain. The anesthesia kept everything numb.

But inside, it felt like something was being slowly hollowed out of me—not all at once, but piece by piece.

Tears slipped out from the corners of my eyes without permission.

For a brief moment, I thought I heard a faint voice. Small. Fragile.

"Mom…?"

I closed my eyes.

And something inside me finally snapped.

After the surgery, I stayed in the hospital the entire day.

He didn't come. Not once. Not even a message.

Only in the evening did I leave on my own.

When I stepped out of the entrance, I saw him waiting.

He was holding a bouquet of roses—large, beautiful, carefully arranged, like an apology that had been rehearsed.

"Happy anniversary," he said.

I looked at the flowers for a long time before finally taking them.

"Thank you," I said.

We got into the car. The silence inside was suffocating.

It wasn't the kind of silence that comes after an argument. It was worse. The kind that suggests there is nothing left to say.

At a red light, he finally spoke.

"I didn't prepare a proper gift this year," he said. "What do you want?"

What do I want?

There was a time I would have had a dozen answers. But I had stopped voicing them long ago—because even when I did, they never seemed to stay.

I looked out the window. City lights blurred past in streaks.

"I signed up for a new parents' class," I said quietly. "Would you go with me?"

The atmosphere in the car changed instantly.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"Isabella and I are just friends," he said quickly. "Don't read too much into it. Don't get upset."

"Mm," I answered softly.

He paused, as if my calm response unsettled him.

Then his voice cooled. "Then why would you sign up for something like that?"

Why?

I used to want that answer too.

I had signed up full of hope once. Back when I still believed there would be a child to bring into this world.

But not anymore.

I turned my head toward the window, my eyes stinging. "If you don't want to hear the truth, don't ask me what I want for our anniversary."

His throat moved slightly. He said nothing.

He had made a reservation. I knew it the moment we walked in—it was Isabella's favorite restaurant.

I didn't comment. I simply followed him to the table.

Only then did I realize I had left my bag in the car.

He stood up to get it for me.

I sat alone, watching the candlelight flicker between us, and suddenly everything felt absurd—like I was watching a play that had gone on too long.

Except I was no longer sure whether I was part of the audience…

or part of the performance.

It took a long time before he returned.

But when he did, he wasn't holding my bag.

He was holding something else, a folded piece of paper, the hospital consent form for the procedure.

He picked up the bag and walked over. "You left your bag behind."

His gaze lingered on my face for a moment before he asked quietly, "What's with the abortion form inside?"

I took the bag calmly. "Patient records from the hospital. I just slipped them in there."

He nodded. "I see."

He didn't ask any more questions, just as he hadn't over the past five years. When it came to me, he was always quick to believe—or perhaps quick to look the other way.

Soon, the food arrived. The rich aroma of butter blended with spicy seasonings, filling the air. But the moment the scent reached me, my stomach twisted, and my appetite vanished completely.

"What's wrong?" Jameson looked up at me, as if only just realizing how quiet I'd been.

He picked up a piece of lemon-butter cod and placed it on my plate. "Isn't this your favorite?"

I looked down at the fish and forced a faint smile.

"You've got it wrong." I set down my chopsticks. "Isabella's the one who likes this."

Jameson's hand froze in midair.

A few seconds later, he said quietly, "…I'm sorry."

He reached for the menu. "Then let's order something else. What do you like? I'll remember next time."

Next time.

I lowered my gaze.

We'd been married for five years. If he had truly paid attention, he would already know what I liked and what I didn't.

"It's okay," I said softly. "Let's just leave it."

He frowned but didn't say anything else.

And I never picked up my chopsticks again.

The candlelight on the table flickered softly. Silence seeped between us like rising water—still, suffocating, just like our marriage.

As if trying to make up for something, Jameson had been coming home early every day lately, bringing a different gift each time.

In the past, receiving gifts from him would make me happy for days.

Now, I simply accepted them without feeling anything at all.

Finally, one day, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked at me.

"You don't like any of them?" he asked. "Scarlett, if there's something you want, just tell me. As long as it makes you happy."

I looked at him and slowly shook my head.

"I don't want any of those things." I paused. "I just want you to stay with me through this."

I handed him the piece of paper I had prepared beforehand.

At the top, it read: [New Dad's To-Do List]

Jameson glanced down and let out a laugh.

"Alright. If it makes you happy."

His agreement sounded casual, almost absent-minded.

The next morning, I handed him a baby bottle and a container of formula.

"Item number one," I said. "Once we have a baby, you'll need to know how to make formula."

Jameson frowned as he studied the instructions, awkwardly fumbling through each step—adding too much water one moment, making it too hot the next.

Half an hour later, the kitchen looked like a disaster zone.

Yet he showed no trace of impatience. If anything, he looked strangely invested.

When he finally managed to get it right, his eyes lit up instantly.

He turned toward me and blurted out instinctively—

"Isabella, look—"

His voice cut off abruptly.

The air seemed to freeze.

He looked at me, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Scarlett, I…"

I blinked slowly, but I couldn't even manage a bitter smile.

"It's okay."

I lowered my head and quietly checked off the first item on the list.

Seeing that I said nothing, he reached out and pulled me into his arms, his chin brushing lightly against my hair. Then, just as he had done countless times before, he changed the subject with practiced ease.

"Honey," he said softly, "when are we going to have our baby?"

He smiled. "I've already decided. If it's a girl, I'm sending her to boxing classes so nobody can bully her. And if it's a boy—"

My hand instinctively rested on my lower abdomen.

I took a slow breath, forcing down the sharp ache rising in my chest.

"Jameson," I interrupted, looking up at him, "if Isabella had come back on our wedding day… would you still have married me?"

The room fell silent.

Jameson's face gradually lost color, his lips trembling slightly. "You… know?"

I slowly stepped out of his embrace.

Seconds passed. But he said nothing.

And sometimes silence is an answer all on its own.

I didn't know how long passed before he finally managed to speak, "She and I actually—"

I raised a hand and gently pressed it against his lips. "Don't explain."

I looked at him and smiled. "As long as you can live with yourself, that's enough."

Over the following days, Jameson became busier and busier, often hurrying out the door after answering a phone call.

But I never asked where he was going.

My gaze would occasionally drift to the unfinished New Dad's To-Do List, and then to the countdown on my phone screen.

Less than thirty days.

I had actually finished everything.

Turns out ending a relationship is far easier than starting one.

I slowly walked out the door, hailed a cab, and went to the hospital alone.

After finishing my resignation paperwork, I walked out holding the notice in my hand.

As I passed the maternity ward, my steps suddenly stopped.

Not far away, I saw Jameson and Isabella.

Isabella was smiling brightly, one hand resting on her stomach, the other looped through Jameson's arm.

They walked slowly together, just like any couple waiting for the arrival of a new life.

Jameson supported her carefully, his eyes rarely leaving her.

I had never seen that kind of anticipation—or tenderness—on his face before.

As they passed by, I heard their conversation clearly.

Isabella smiled.

"Jameson, I'm so happy you're here with me and the baby. After he's born, will you help me pick a name?"

She paused, her voice growing softer.

"Will you let him call you Dad?"

Silence hung in the air for a second.

Then I heard Jameson chuckle softly. "Of course."

Almost without hesitation, I paused for only a moment before continuing forward.

Because Jameson and I were already divorced.

From now on, whoever he chose to be a father to had nothing to do with me.

I repeated those words over and over in my mind, as if saying them enough times would make me believe them.

When I got home, I started packing.

By the time I finished, the clock on the wall read exactly ten.

Then I heard the sound of someone entering the code at the front door.

Jameson was home.

I had just stepped out of the bedroom when he suddenly pulled me into his arms.

He lowered his head and buried his face against my neck, his voice muffled.

"Darling… we'll have children of our own someday, won't we?"

My entire body stiffened instantly.

I stood there without moving.

I just couldn't understand it.

How could he be tangled up with Isabella while standing here talking to me about our future and our children as if nothing had happened?

He didn't seem to notice my silence.

He only held me tighter.

The next morning, I got up and made breakfast as usual.

Jameson came downstairs wearing his captain's uniform.

But just as he reached the table, his phone rang.

The moment he saw the caller ID, his expression changed.

After he answered, I heard the panicked voice on the other end.

Isabella had gone into labor.

Jameson didn't touch a single bite of breakfast.

He stood there clutching his phone, looking at me as if he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

"Honey…"

I forced a smile and lowered my head, quietly gathering the dishes.

"Go," I said softly. "Giving birth alone is hard."

Silence lingered for two seconds.

Then I saw his eyes brighten, unable to hide the joy in them.

He walked over and hugged me tightly, leaning down to kiss my forehead.

"Honey, wait for me to come back."

Then he grabbed his coat and rushed out the door.

The moment it closed behind him, I stood there staring at it for a long time.

Then I walked back to the table and dumped the still-steaming breakfast into the trash.

As though something inside me had finally been emptied completely.

When I arrived at the airport, it was crowded.

Announcements echoed overhead without stopping.

On the giant screen, the words flashed:

[Flight to Rome Delayed]

I sat quietly in a corner and heard people nearby complaining.

"What's going on? Why the sudden delay?"

"If this takes much longer, I'm switching flights."

An hour later, the boarding announcement finally came.

"Passengers traveling to Rome, please proceed to boarding—"

I lowered the brim of my hat and walked into first class.

After taking my seat, I stared silently out the window.

Ten minutes later, the plane began taxiing.

Then the cabin announcement came on.

Jameson's deep, cool voice filled the cabin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay caused by personal circumstances."

He paused, amusement barely hidden in his tone.

"My wife went into labor early today. To express my apologies, I've prepared compensation and gifts for everyone on board. Thank you for your understanding."

Some passengers laughed and applauded.

Others whistled.

"Congratulations, Captain!"

And me—

sitting quietly in the front row, I simply watched the city outside the window grow smaller and smaller.