Chapter 2

“Bed seven. We need a family member’s signature.”

When the nurse opened the hospital-room door, I was counting the cracks in the ceiling.

I hadn’t chosen to be admitted.

The girl from the convenience store had called the police. The police called an ambulance, and I was brought to the hospital where I’d had my prenatal checkups before the divorce.

I had signs of placental abruption.

The doctor’s face had turned pale with anger. He said that if I had arrived half an hour later, the baby might not have survived.

But I had no family.

The girl from the convenience store had paid my hospital deposit—twelve hundred dollars. Her name was Mia. She was a college sophomore who worked part-time at the store.

“Don’t worry about anything, miss. The money can wait. Just take care of yourself first.”

She shoved a pen into my hand, then hurriedly signed her own name in the family-member section.

The nurse frowned. “What are you to her?”

“My younger sister.” Mia didn’t even blink.

The nurse looked at her, then at me, but didn’t question it further.

The hospital room was small, with four beds.

The other three pregnant women all had their husbands with them. The man beside the window went downstairs every morning to buy breakfast. The man in the middle slept on the floor beside his wife every night.

No one asked where my family was.

But they watched me.

It wasn’t malicious.

It was curiosity, mixed with a little unspoken relief.

At least they weren’t the most miserable person in the room.

On the third day, Sophie came.

She was wearing the camel-colored coat Ethan had bought for me.

“Claire!”

The moment she walked in, her eyes turned red. She carried a thermos and a basket of fruit. The heavy scent of perfume filled the room.

The other three women immediately looked over.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Your phone was off, and no one could reach you—”

“How did you find me?”

Sophie froze for a moment. Her eyes shifted.

“I called several hospitals.”

She sat down beside my bed and opened the thermos. The smell of chicken soup drifted out.

“Whatever happened, you’re my best friend. I could never abandon you.”

I stared at the ring on her finger.

A simple platinum band with a date engraved inside.

My wedding ring.

Sophie followed my gaze. She quickly pulled her hand back and hid it inside her sleeve.

“This… Ethan insisted I wear it. I couldn’t exactly refuse—”

“Why are you really here?”

She bit her lip and put on a troubled expression.

I had seen that expression for ten years, from our college dorm room to my wedding day.

“Claire, actually, Margaret sent me. She said… you still have the key to the house Ethan bought before the wedding.”

I laughed.

“So you came for the key.”

“No, no! I just thought I’d come see you while I was here—”

“The key is in my bag. Take it yourself.”

Sophie visibly relaxed. She searched my bag with practiced ease. After finding the key, she casually rummaged through my wallet.

I saw it clearly.

“Claire, you’re almost out of money, aren’t you?” She put the wallet back. A subtle satisfaction rose in her expression. “If things are really difficult, I can talk to Ethan—”

“Sophie.”

“Yeah?”

“Take the soup. You got the key. The door’s over there.”

She froze for two seconds, then smiled.

She stood, picked up the thermos, and glanced back at me from the doorway.

There was no guilt in her eyes. No shame.

Only a faint, condescending pity.

The look someone gave a person who had lost everything.

“Claire, stop pretending you’re fine. You know how much this room costs per day, don’t you?”

The door closed behind her.

The woman by the window quietly offered me a tissue.

I didn’t take it.

When I lowered my head, I saw that my hands were shaking.

It wasn’t fear or humiliation.

It was a deep, nauseating disgust rising from my stomach.

She wore my coat, my ring, and drank soup from the thermos I had used countless times.

Then she came to my hospital bed to confirm that I had nothing left.

That evening, when Mia brought me dinner, I asked to borrow two hundred dollars.

“Don’t be like that, miss. You don’t have to pay me back right away.”

“It’s not that. I’m being discharged.”

“But the doctor said you should stay until the baby is full-term—”

“I can’t afford it anymore.”