He had poured a drink, looked at her with chilling contempt, and shattered her world.
“I am tired of this, Abigail. Tired of the appointments, the treatments, the disappointment. You are useless to me. What kind of wife cannot give her husband a child?”
She had tried to comfort him, to plead that there were other paths to parenthood. But he had recoiled from her touch, his face twisted in disgust.
“I deserve better than this. Better than you. Cassandra would never put me through this hell.”
That was the moment the marriage died. Not because of biology, but because the man she adored had never truly loved her; he had only loved what she could provide. She had been a placeholder. Now, in the sterile conference room, Brandon stared at her swollen belly as if seeing a phantom.
“Whose is it?” he demanded, his voice rising in panic. “Who is the father?”
A surge of righteous anger flared in Abigail’s chest.
“Yours, Brandon. The child is yours.”
The room plunged into a stunned silence. Even the attorneys seemed to have stopped breathing. Brandon’s expression cycled through a chaotic mix of shock, disbelief, and sudden, desperate hope. He stumbled back toward his chair, gripping the table edge for support.
“But how? When?”
Abigail sighed, her patience wearing thin.
“We were still married when this happened,” she explained calmly. “Do the math. This child was conceived before you moved out. Before you started parading Cassandra around town like a prize pony.”
Brandon ran a hand through his hair, destroying the perfect styling.
“A child. My child… Abigail, this changes everything. We cannot get divorced now. We have to try again. For the baby.”
Patricia placed a protective hand on Abigail’s forearm, but Abigail shook her head gently. She had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in her mind.
“No, Brandon. This changes nothing. You wanted a divorce because I couldn’t give you a child. Well, I am giving you one. But I am not giving you me. Not anymore.”
“You cannot keep my child from me,” Brandon said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, commanding register she knew too well.
“I am not keeping anything from you,” Abigail retorted. “You will have visitation rights, support arrangements, everything legal and proper. But I will not be your wife. You destroyed that possibility the night you called me useless.”
Brandon looked frantically at his attorneys, silently commanding them to fix this, to make Abigail see reason. But they remained mute, staring at their legal pads. They dealt in contracts, not broken hearts.
“Please,” Brandon said, and it was the first time Abigail had ever heard him beg. “I made a mistake. I was cruel. I was wrong. But we can fix this. Think about what is best for the child. A child needs both parents.”
“This child will have both parents,” Abigail said firmly. “But those parents will not be married to each other. I have spent seven months learning to live without you, Brandon. Seven months discovering who I am when I’m not trying to twist myself into what you wanted. And I like this version of myself. I am stronger. I am happier. I am free.”
She picked up the pen. With a steady hand, she signed her name on the divorce decree. The wet ink glistened in the afternoon light streaming through the blinds. Patricia added her signature as a witness and slid the documents toward Brandon.
“Your turn,” Patricia said coolly.
Brandon stared at the papers as if they were a death warrant.
“What about Cassandra? What am I supposed to tell her?”
“That is your problem, not mine,” Abigail said, rising to her feet.
She gathered her emerald coat around her, suddenly desperate to escape the heavy atmosphere of the room.
“You chose Cassandra when you decided I wasn’t enough. Now you get to live with that choice.”
As she headed for the exit, Brandon called out one last time, desperation cracking his voice.
“Abigail, wait! We can work this out. I will leave Cassandra. We will raise this baby together. I will be different this time. I promise.”
Abigail paused with her hand on the brass doorknob. She glanced back at the man who had once been the center of her universe and felt nothing but a distant pity.
“You won’t leave Cassandra, Brandon. She’s everything you wanted in a wife—beautiful, ambitious, willing to be your trophy. The only problem is, she will never give you what I am giving you now. And that must be killing you.”
She walked out before he could respond. She moved through the reception area, out of the building, and away from that life. Behind her, she heard the muffled sounds of raised voices—Brandon arguing with his legal team—but she didn’t look back.
Outside, the sun was beginning to dip, painting the sky in vibrant strokes of tangerine and pink. Abigail placed both hands on her belly, feeling the distinct flutter of her son or daughter shifting inside. This child, this miracle, had gifted her something far more valuable than Brandon’s conditional love ever could.
It had given her purpose, steel in her spine, and the courage to choose herself. As she reached her car, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was a text from Patricia: He signed. It is done. You are free.
Abigail smiled, hot tears tracking through the light makeup on her cheeks. Free. After years of shrinking herself to fit someone else’s expectations, she was finally free to just be. That, she realized, was the greatest inheritance she could give her child.
The apartment Abigail rented was a universe away from the penthouse she had shared with Brandon. It was located on the third floor of a modest brick building in a quiet, leafy neighborhood where children drew chalk art in the courtyard and neighbors actually greeted one another.
The living room was compact but awash in natural light. She had decorated it simply, favoring soft creams, soothing blues, and cheerful yellows. As she prepared the nursery corner for the baby due in two months, Abigail had feared the silence of living alone. Instead, she found it liberating.
Her days settled into a peaceful, nourishing rhythm. There were morning walks in the adjacent park, prenatal yoga sessions, and stacks of books on motherhood. She had resumed working remotely as a freelance graphic designer to pay the bills.
While the logos and layouts kept the lights on, they were merely functional. The artistic passion she had once possessed—the drive to paint, to express—lay dormant, buried under years of Brandon’s criticism. But being independent again was the first brushstroke of a new life.
It was during one of her routine prenatal checkups that the axis of her world shifted once more. The clinic she had selected was small and intimate, the walls adorned with murals of woodland animals and rainbows. The receptionist knew her by name, always asking if the baby was being active.
“Mrs. Whitmore?” a nurse called out.
“Ms. Carter, please,” Abigail corrected gently. She was reclaiming her maiden name.
“Apologies, Ms. Carter. Dr. Torres will see you now.”
Abigail had been seeing Dr. Torres for the past month, ever since her previous obstetrician retired. She hoisted her bag and followed the nurse down a corridor filled with the ambient sounds of life—babies crying, mothers cooing. The door to Exam Room Four was ajar.
Inside, Dr. Michael Torres was swiping through charts on a tablet. He looked up as she entered, his face breaking into a smile that reached his eyes.
“Good afternoon, Abigail. How are you and the baby doing today?”
Michael Torres was nothing like the clinical, cold specialists Brandon had employed. At thirty-five, he radiated an easygoing warmth that instantly lowered one’s blood pressure. He was tall, with broad shoulders and black hair that curled slightly at the ends, often falling stubbornly over his forehead.
His eyes were a deep, soulful brown—the kind that seemed to truly see people. He wore his white coat over casual attire, a stethoscope draped around his neck like a familiar scarf.
“We are doing well,” Abigail said, hopping onto the examination table. “The baby has been very active lately. I think he or she is training for the Olympics.”
Michael laughed, a rich, genuine sound.
“That is a good sign. Active babies are healthy babies. Let’s take a listen and see what this little athlete is up to.”
As he performed the examination, Michael chatted with her about everything and nothing. He asked about her workload, her sleep quality, and if she had any new cravings. Unlike the specialists from her fertility struggles, who had treated her like a malfunctioning incubator, Michael treated her like a whole human being.
He celebrated every millimeter of growth and reassured every anxiety.
“Everything looks perfect,” he announced, pulling the stethoscope from his ears. “Your blood pressure is stable. The heartbeat is strong. You are doing an excellent job taking care of yourself and this little one.”
Abigail felt a sudden sting of tears. She had been terrified during the early months, convinced her body would fail her again. Michael’s consistent encouragement was a lifeline.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything. You’ve made this experience so much less frightening.”
Michael pulled a rolling stool closer and sat down, his expression shifting from professional to personal concern.
“Abigail, can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if it’s too intrusive.”
She nodded, curious.
“The name on your file is Whitmore, but you asked us to call you Carter. And I’ve noticed you attend every appointment alone. Is everything okay? Are you safe?”
The genuine concern in his voice unlocked something in Abigail’s chest. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about the reality of her situation.
“I am safe,” she assured him. “I just got divorced. The baby’s father and I… it wasn’t a good situation. I needed to leave. Carter is my maiden name. I’m taking it back.”
Michael nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of her words.
“I am sorry you had to go through that. But I admire your strength. It takes incredible courage to start over, especially when you’re about to become a mother.”
