My fiancé called me “unbearable” at our baby shower. He didn’t even know I was carrying twins.
The baby shower was supposed to be perfect. Pink and blue balloons, thirty-seven guests, a three-tiered cake. I was unwrapping burp cloths when nausea hit.
“Oh my, this morning sickness is brutal,” I said.
Marcus recoiled. “Can you not talk about that in front of everyone? You’ve been unbearable.”
The word hit me like a slap. I forced a smile. “Let’s keep opening gifts.” Inside, something inside me cracked.
The next morning, he was dressed, scrolling his phone.
“About yesterday…” I began.
“What about it?”
“You humiliated me.”
“I told the truth. You’ve been unbearable.”
Again with that word. I pressed my hands to my belly. “I’m growing your babies,” I whispered.
“My baby,” he corrected. Singular.
Twins. The ultrasound three weeks ago had shown two perfect spines. I realized there would never be a “perfect moment” with a man who found my very existence unbearable. He left without a goodbye.
The door closed like a coffin lid. I sat among unopened gifts, monuments to a future now feeling like a fantasy.
My phone buzzed: Sarah. Pack a bag. Come stay with me. Now.
The twins moved again, elbows and knees, urging me to act.
