"Isabella, breathe. You're shaking."
Maria's voice came from somewhere close, steady and familiar. I hadn't realized my hands were trembling until she wrapped hers around them, warm and firm, grounding me in the present.
"I'm fine," I said, though the word came out thinner than I intended.
She studied my face the way only someone who had known me for years could. "You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
That was becoming my favorite lie.
The dining table was set, untouched plates gleaming under soft lights. Daniel's chair sat empty again. I lowered myself into mine anyway, staring at the space across from me as if he might appear if I focused hard enough.
"Madam," Maria said gently, "should I—"
"Leave it," I interrupted. "He'll eat later."
Or he wouldn't. Either way, the food would go cold just the same.
After she left, I pushed the chair back and walked toward the window. The garden below looked unreal in its perfection. Every hedge trimmed. Every flower in its place. I pressed my palm against the glass and felt nothing but cool resistance.
My phone buzzed.
Daniel: Sorry. Board meeting ran late. Don't wait up.
I typed Okay and erased it. Then typed it again and sent it. Short messages were easier. They asked for nothing.
I went upstairs and stopped outside the room at the end of the hall—the one we had once argued over paint colors and furniture for. The one we had planned to turn into a nursery. The door was still closed, as it had been for months.
I opened it.
The room smelled faintly of dust and something older—hope, maybe. The crib was gone, but the curtains remained. Pale yellow. Neutral, we had said. Safe.
I sat on the floor, my back against the wall, knees pulled to my chest. I pressed my fingers to my stomach, not in expectation, but habit. My body had become a place of constant apology.
"I tried," I whispered. "I really did."
The words felt useless once spoken.
I didn't remember falling asleep, only waking when the house shifted—footsteps, doors opening and closing. Daniel stood in the doorway, his silhouette cutting across the room.
"You shouldn't be in here," he said quietly.
"I know."
He didn't move closer. "You're hurting yourself."
I laughed softly. "That would suggest I still feel something new."
He sighed and rubbed his face. "We can talk to another specialist. Maybe abroad."
"I don't want another specialist." I stood, brushing dust from my dress. "I don't want another schedule or injection or room where someone tells me my body is failing politely."
"That's not what they say."
"It is what they mean."
We stood there, the silence heavy but careful. He reached for me, hesitated, then let his hand fall.
"I'm tired," he said.
"So am I."
He left without another word.
The next morning, I woke early and dressed for the outreach program. Charity days were easier. They asked for energy, not answers. Linia sat at the breakfast counter when I entered the kitchen, her posture straight, her movements precise.
"Good morning, madam," she said.
"Good morning," I replied. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes."
She paused, then added, "The room is very comfortable. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She watched me as I poured tea, her gaze steady but unreadable. There was something unsettling about how quickly she adapted, how easily she disappeared into the rhythm of the house.
"Would you like to come with me today?" I asked.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Where?"
"To the outreach center. You might find it helpful."
She nodded quickly. "I would like that."
At the center, children ran past us, laughing, shouting names I couldn't catch. Linia stayed close, observing, absorbing everything. When a small boy tripped and scraped his knee, she moved before I did, lifting him gently, murmuring words I couldn't hear.
"You're good with them," I said afterward.
She shrugged. "I raised my brother."
The words lingered. "Where is he now?"
Her mouth tightened. "Gone."
I didn't ask where.
That afternoon, as we handed out supplies, a woman approached me, her baby wrapped tightly against her chest. The child's eyes were closed, lashes resting against smooth skin.
"She's beautiful," I said.
The woman smiled tiredly. "She's strong."
I reached out without thinking, touching the baby's hand. Tiny fingers curled around mine, warm and certain.
Something inside me cracked.
I excused myself quickly, retreating to a quiet corner. My breath came too fast. My chest burned.
Linia appeared beside me. "Are you okay, madam?"
"Yes," I said, then shook my head. "No."
She waited. She always seemed to know when to wait.
"I can't…" My voice broke. "I can't even hold them without falling apart."
Her eyes softened—not with pity, but understanding. "You don't have to hold them," she said. "You already help them live."
It was a kind thing to say. Maybe too kind.
That night, Daniel didn't come home.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my thoughts spiraling into places I didn't want to visit. Sometime after midnight, I heard voices downstairs. Low. Careful. I slipped out of bed and stood at the top of the stairs.
Daniel was in the living room.
Linia stood across from him.
"I didn't mean to wake you, sir," she said. "I heard you come in and thought—"
"It's fine," Daniel replied. His voice sounded different. Softer. "You should be asleep."
"I couldn't," she said quietly. "Madam seemed upset today."
My hand tightened around the railing.
"She's been through a lot," Daniel said.
"So have you."
There was a pause. Not empty. Loaded.
"I just wanted to say thank you," Linia continued. "For letting me stay. I won't cause trouble."
"I know," Daniel said. "You're doing well."
I stepped back before they could see me, my heart pounding too loudly in my ears. I returned to bed, pulling the covers up as if fabric could shield me from the unease settling deep in my chest.
The next day, I found an envelope on the vanity in our bathroom. No name. Just my handwriting staring back at me.
I opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a single ultrasound image.
My vision blurred.
The date was recent.
And it wasn't mine.
My phone buzzed before I could breathe.
Unknown Number: Some children are carried in secret.
I stared at the image, my hands numb, my heart racing.
And in that moment, I knew—the child I couldn't carry was not the only truth my body had been forced to accept.