She's Carrying My Child

Elena's Point Of View   The water was ice cold… blazing in its own cruel way, almost as if it were punishing me for feeling anything at all.   I stood beneath the stream, arms wrapped tightly around my chest, as if I could hold myself together with just that. My hair clung to my face, and my lips trembled, not from the cold, but from the weight pressing down on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t even flinch as the water rushed over my skin like needles.   Silent tears slid down my cheeks and blended with the shower, indistinguishable. The cold helped. It numbed me just enough to keep the sobs at bay. Just enough to dull the ache… slightly.   I leaned my forehead against the tiled wall and closed my eyes.   “This is me… choosing my world.”   His words echoed again and again, ripping through me with every repetition. But then… was it because we hadn’t had sex in a while?   I blinked through the stream of water, a bitter laugh crawling its way up my throat. Maybe… maybe that was it. Men were physical creatures, weren’t they? Maybe this whole thing was just… lack of intimacy. A drought.   Maybe if I just reached out… He used to not be able to keep his hands off me. My body was his temple once, he told me that after our honeymoon, whispered it against my skin as he kissed every inch of me.   And maybe… just maybe… if I reminded him… There was still hope.   I shut off the tap with trembling fingers, letting the silence of the bathroom take over. My skin was goosebumped and pale, water still dripping from my hair. I wrapped the towel around myself slowly, like it was a ritual, like I needed every movement to count.   Then I walked to the bedroom.   The room was dim, the only source of light coming from the pale glow of his phone screen. He was lying on the bed, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other scrolling, eyes fixed, brows furrowed slightly.   I stood at the doorway, heart thudding like a war drum. I swallowed hard, then took a breath.   It always worked before. He always reached for me. Always. “Graham,” I called softly, stepping inside.   He didn’t look up.   “Graham,” I repeated, louder this time. Finally, his gaze lifted. I took one more step forward. And then… I let the towel fall.   It pooled at my feet like a soft whisper, and I stood there, bare, vulnerable, exposed in every possible way. My heart was racing so hard I thought I’d collapse. My hands were trembling, my knees weak, but I stayed still, holding his gaze, daring him to feel again.   For a fleeting moment… just a flicker, I saw it. Desire. The way his eyes darkened, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, the pause in his breath.   ‘Yes. Yes. There you are. My Graham. My husband.’   But then… He blinked. And it vanished. Like it never existed.   He turned his head, set his phone aside slowly, then sat up slightly, rubbing a hand over his face as if I’d just given him a problem to solve instead of an invitation.   “What are you doing, Elena?” he asked tiredly. “Get dressed.”   The words struck like a slap. My heart cracked open right then and there, and I felt the shame rush to my cheeks like fire.   But I refused to cry.   “You used to adore me,” I whispered, voice tight. “You used to worship me. My body. You used to look at me like I was the only woman in the world.”   He sighed and rubbed his temples. I took a step closer.   “What changed, Graham?” I demanded, eyes burning. “What happened to the man who couldn’t wait to get home to me? Who used to kiss me in every room, who used to sneak up behind me just to feel me against him?”   Another sigh. Long. Heavy. Resigned. “Elena,” he said, “You’re beautiful. You know that. I’ve always said you were beautiful.”   “Then what is it?” I choked out. “Do I not turn you on anymore? Do I disgust you?”   He looked up sharply. “No! It’s not that. You’re… God, you’re gorgeous. But I’m just not… I’m not in the mood. I’m not interested right now, okay?”   My lip trembled, and this time, I couldn’t stop the tears. They came, slow and steady, carving paths down my cheeks.   “Nothing I say or do will change your mind, will it?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.   He didn’t respond. He just… looked away. And that silence? That nothing? It was worse than any harsh word he could have thrown at me.   I bent down quietly, picked up my towel, wrapped it around myself again.   Something inside me snapped, not with fury, but with clarity. A dull, cold clarity that terrified me.   “Since it’s an open marriage you want…” I said quietly, wiping a tear from my cheek, “Let’s have an open marriage.”   That made him turn back to me. His gaze met mine for a beat, expression unreadable. And then he said, “Good.” Just one word.   Good.   I nodded, heart in pieces.   Then I walked away, towel clenched tight in my fists, into the bathroom again, this time, not to cry. Not to freeze under water.   But to scream silently into a towel… so he wouldn’t hear me break.   **********   Three days later.   The rain hadn’t stopped. It had drizzled in the morning, poured like the heavens were grieving by afternoon, and now as evening rolled in, it tapped rhythmically against the windows like some mournful drumbeat.   I sat curled into the plush corner of our living room couch, a forgotten cup of tea lukewarm in my hands. The TV was on, but I couldn’t say what was playing. My eyes were locked on my phone screen, but I wasn’t really scrolling, just flicking mindlessly through reels of people laughing, loving, living.   Anything but feeling.   I kept waiting. Waiting for him to say it was a cruel joke. That he didn’t mean it. That it was the grief speaking. That the weight of not having a child was clouding his judgment.   I even imagined it.   He would walk in with those tired eyes of his, sit next to me, pull me into his arms and kiss my hair like he used to when I couldn’t sleep, whispering, "It’s just a dream, Elena… you’re still mine."   But nothing came.   Only silence. And then… the sound of keys jingling at the front door. I sat up slowly. My heartbeat quickened, hope sparking against reason.   The door opened with a casual push, and he stepped in.   But he wasn’t alone.   She came in after him. Tall. Elegant. Belly round and unmistakably pregnant. And behind them… the servants, two of them, carrying in suitcases and shopping bags.   My heart dropped so hard I could hear the thud echo inside my chest. “Graham…” I stood up, voice weak, almost afraid to speak. “What’s going on?”   He looked up and smiled like we were old friends catching up after years.   “Oh, Elena,” he said, as if surprised to see me standing there. “Good thing you’re here…”   “Spare me the long talks, Graham,” I snapped, my voice rising before I could stop it. My fists clenched. “What is she doing here?”   I already knew. God, I knew. But I needed to hear it. I needed him to say it. I needed it to burn all the way down.   He looked from me to her… her, with that smug little half-smile and one hand cradling her belly like a trophy, and then back to me.   He didn’t flinch.   Didn’t look ashamed. Didn’t even look sorry. “We’re together,” he said simply, brushing invisible lint from his coat. “She’s carrying my child.”