Chapter 5:
James’s temper flared.
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His tone was harsh: “What’s wrong with you these past few days? I’ve explained everything I needed to explain. When I ask why you’re unhappy, you won’t tell me anything. What exactly do you want?”
For three years of marriage, Emma had endured James’s temper, but now she was done being patient.
“James, I’ll say it again – I don’t feel well.” Emma’s voice cracked as tears welled in her eyes.
James showed no sympathy. He raised an eyebrow, saying disdainfully, “If you weren’t feeling well, couldn’t you have said something earlier? You want me to go to work hungry?”
After three years of marriage, James had grown accustomed to Emma revolving her life around him, cooking his meals and doing his laundry.
He thought she was just being difficult.
Emma’s lips had turned pale, but James didn’t notice. He turned away to answer a phone call.
His tone instantly transformed, becoming gentle: “Lucy? You’re outside our house right now?”
He headed to the front door to let Lucy in.
Boston’s early winter was frigid. Lucy wore only a thin beige wool coat, shivering in the cold wind. The chill had painted her cheeks pink, making her look even more delicate and vulnerable.
Lucy clutched a pink lunch box, breaking into a smile when she saw James. “I came early worried you might have eaten already. What perfect timing!”
She pressed the lunch box into James’s hands.
Her slender fingers lingered on his hands.
They gazed at each other, completely ignoring Emma trembling in the doorway. Emma stared numbly at Lucy’s wool coat she’d seen the purchase record. James. had bought it for her.
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1:04 PM Mon 10 Mar
05
James looked down at the lunch box, smiling softly. “Let’s go to the office.” Lucy linked her arm through James’s, naturally sliding into the passenger seat. She glanced out the window, meeting Emma’s gaze.
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Lucy rolled down the window, speaking to Emma in a playful tone: “I heard Mrs. Foster hasn’t been feeling well enough to take care of Mr. Foster lately, so I’m here to help! You don’t mind, do you?”
She turned to look at James in the driver’s seat, saying sweetly, “My cooking isn’t great – probably can’t compare to a housewife of three years. You won’t mind, will you, Mr. Foster?”
James shook his head, smiling indulgently.
“How could I? Your thoughtfulness means everything.”
He rolled up the window and stepped on the gas. Soon after, Emma received a text from James:
“If you won’t cook for me, plenty of others will.”
Emma clutched her phone, shaking violently, the discomfort in her abdomen intensifying.
She gathered her strength and made an appointment for a prenatal checkup. The doctor looked at her results and sighed, asking, “Where’s your family?” Emma gave a bitter laugh. “My soon–to–be ex–husband? That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
The doctor paused, eyes filling with sympathy.
“The baby is fine, but your poor health from overwork and stress could affect the
fetus. Go home and rest – don’t overexert yourself.”
Emma took the prenatal report, looking at the tiny life inside her.
She was still uncertain whether to keep the baby.
Emma went home, made a simple meal, and slept until afternoon.
James hadn’t sent any messages, but he’d made a social media post.
It was a photo of Lucy standing by a window, captioned: “Who knew a big, star could be so adorably hardworking?”
