One Hour Before the Abortion

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One hour before the abortion, I scrolled past a post.

[What do you think makes for a truly triumphant life?]

A comment had been upvoted into the top spot.

[I can answer this. I'm the beloved fake heiress of a wealthy family.]

[Not only did I enjoy the life meant for that fool for eighteen years, but even the husband she has now is just trash I tossed aside.]

[When she came back, I just pretended the sudden bouts of "depression". To avoid upsetting me, our parents still haven't officially acknowledged her. To the outside world she's still listed as our foster daughter.]

[She only worked her way up to general manager after so much struggle, then because I casually said "I want that too," her husband, as the main client, started making her life hell at work. My parents promoted me to general manager instead.]

[Best part? The night before their wedding, I said I felt bad. He and I ...well, we made love on their new bed and consummated it early.]

Every line dripped with smug triumph.

The internet flamed with angry replies, but she grew only bolder.

She posted a photo next, a few blurred airline tickets.

[He forced her to get the abortion because I said I didn't want her to have another child.]

[Funny thing is, she's the only one in that operating room right now. Her parents, her husband they're all accompanying me on a trip to Miami.]

[God, my luck is insane. What could she possibly compare to me?]

I looked at the picture on my phone. It was the same photo I'd seen on Brooke Shaw's social feed.

So the "idiot" she'd been mocking was me.

Brooke Shaw took the flood of online abuse as a badge of honor and got worse.

[Slam me all you want. Your anger just proves how much they love me. I'm their precious daughter. I'm the one her husband loves.]

Below she'd pinned another image.

A delicate hand, a diamond ring on the ring finger.

The design was painfully familiar. An identical one I'd seen every day on Andrew York's hand.

Her next reply popped up, gleaming with vanity.

[See? I said casually "it's disgusting to touch me while wearing someone else's wedding ring," and he tossed their worthless pair away.]

[This one? We picked it out together. Matching couple rings, engraved with our names.]

[In this world, the one who isn't loved is the mistress. I'm the real wife here.]

My gaze locked on that ring.

A chill seeped from my heart.

A memory from three years ago stabbed into my mind.

The day I noticed Andrew's wedding ring was missing, he'd frantically searched every pocket, finally pulling me into a hug.

"Honey, the ring must've fallen off on a business trip. I'm so stupid," he said, coaxing me. "Punish me however you like."

I believed him.

I trusted him.

A week later, there was a strange ring on his finger.

I was confused, "Where did you get that ring?"

He held his hand up for me to see, his expression a mix of helplessness.

"I tried on a sample at work and it got stuck," he said.

"If it bothers you, honey, I'll cut this finger off to take it off, okay?"

My heart squeezed. I took his hand back.

"Don't be ridiculous keep it on. If it's uncomfortable we'll get it off . It...it actually looks nice."

So that was their "couple ring."

My discarded wedding band, and the unborn life inside me, were both just embarrassing, laughable obstacles on the road of their romance.

The comment section had already erupted, angry replies streamed in.

Brooke Shaw's post had been pinned to the top, and countless sympathetic women were pleading in the replies.

[Please share! Someone get this true heiress's attention! She needs to see this! Get out!]

[The real heiress, honey, take care of yourself. You deserve so much better than these awful people!]

Tears rolled down my cheeks, but in the end I signed the abortion consent form.

Andrew York did not deserve a child by me.

When I left the operating room, a dull, hollow ache made me hang on to the corridor railing as I walked.

My phone buzzed. It was Andrew.

answered. His voice came through instantly.

"Honey, did you get the abortion?"

"We already have Ethan. One child is enough, you must terminate this pregnancy. Don't let Ethan be hurt."

"Honey? Can you hear me?"

His voice came through the receiver with a deliberate urgency.

After a short pause his tone lifted. "Hello?"

"I can hear you," I said, and a deep stab of pain in my lower abdomen cut across me.

I had to bend over and brace my belly with my arm.

But the physical pain was nothing compared to the suffocating hurt inside.

"So did you get it done?" he asked, the urgency now clear.

I clenched my teeth and forced back the hot sting at the corners of my eyes.

"Yes. It's done."

On the other end he sighed with relief, even a hint of happy.

"Good girl," his voice smoothed back into its usual gentle tone.

"When I get back from this trip I'll get you a present."

I didn't answer.

My silence apparently offended him.

"Oh come on, you've had it rough. I'll make it up to you when I'm back, okay?"

His patience lasted less than two seconds.

Before I could respond he sped up his words, "I've got to run to a meeting. You're so thoughtful. Bye."

Click.

The line went dead.

After that phone call, Andrew disappeared completely.

Three whole days. Not a word.

In the past I would have covered for him, telling myself he was busy and I shouldn't trouble him.

I would leave cautious messages on Facebook:"Remember to eat," "Get some rest", feeling touched by his dedication to our family.

How laughably pathetic.

He wasn't busy.

He'd just gotten rid of a "problem" and was eagerly sharing the "good news" with the woman he actually loved.

Three days later, I was in the living room building blocks with our son, Ethan.

Then Andrew came home with suitcase in hand.

He hugged Ethan, handed over the toy Ethan had been begging for, and said, "Ethan, be good and go play in your room. Dad has something to tell Mom."

He turned to me with a look that carried a private, knowing insinuation.

Once, that hint of intimacy would have made me blush.

Now it only made me sick.

Ethan took the toy upstairs obediently.

Andrew looped his arms around me from behind, his chin on the back of my neck, his voice all sweetness, "Honey, are you still mad? I know I messed up. I should have been there when you needed me. I was an idiot, I promise it won't happen again."

I wrenched out of his arms and faced him. "Andrew, how many promises have you broken this month?" I asked.

His face froze.

I didn't give him a chance to reply.

"On the eighth, our anniversary, you said you would be with me, then a call took you away for two days. Mid-month, when I wasn't feeling well, you promised to come to the hospital with me and left me halfway. And this abortion "

Listing them out, I realized with a shock how flimsy his excuses and lies had been.

It wasn't that he was a good actor.

I'd just been willfully blind.

A flicker of impatience passed through his eyes and he suppressed it with a forced smile.

"Honey, don't keep digging up the past. I work hard for us, you know?"

When I stayed unmoved, he pulled a small box from his pocket.

It was a necklace. "Look, I bought this to make it up to you. Let me put it on..."

I turned my face away.

His hand froze in mid-air.

I looked at him calmly.

"I just had a miscarriage. I need to rest. Let's sleep separately tonight."

He looked shocked as I walked up the stairs.

My phone buzzed as I entered the bedroom. Brooke Shaw posted a new photo on Facebook.

Seeing the photo made me tremble with a fury I couldn't contain.