Camden, my rock, my “solid” husband, cried for 20 minutes, held me tight for one night, and then never mentioned the baby again.
He started taking long, late “walks,” and sleeping with his back turned to me like a concrete barrier.
I was drowning, and he was swimming away.
Elise backed off, too, and that really stung.
When I asked why, she texted: “It just hurts to see you grieving. I’ll come when I can.”
Six weeks later, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Elise. I thought she was going to offer her support at last, but instead she dropped a bombshell on me.
“Big news!! I’m pregnant!! Please come to my gender reveal next Saturday ❤️”
I ran to the bathroom and threw up every ounce of bitterness and shock in my stomach. Not metaphorically, either.
Ten minutes later, Camden walked in.
When I showed him the text, his body locked up, his eyes went blank, and his mouth snapped shut.
“I can’t go,” I said, still curled up beside the toilet. “It’s too soon… it hurts too much.”
What he said next shocked me to the core.
“You have to go, Oakley,” he insisted. “It’s important to her. You can’t make this about you.”
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