Chapter 3 I Don't Care If You Die

When Nicholas opened the door, I had only a cardigan, my passport, and the folder.

I didn't know where I was going. I just needed to keep my hands moving. Folding clothes gave the silence in my chest somewhere to go.

"You're up late," he said.

He looked exhausted, still in his shirt and loosened tie, one hand on the doorknob. Four hours earlier, that hand had peeled shrimp for another woman. I couldn't look at it.

"I'm packing."

"I can see that." He hesitated, his face showing fatigue, guilt, or maybe irritation. With Nicholas, it was hard to tell. "If this is about the east wing, Mother only meant it temporarily. Naomi needs quiet. The guest room is comfortable enough. It's only until the baby comes."

The baby. He made it sound so simple.

"Nicholas." I set the cardigan down, keeping my hands steadier than I expected. "There's something I need to tell you. I want you to hear everything before you respond."

He sighed, tired. One more problem to handle. "Abby, it's been a long day."

"It matters."

"Everything has seemed important to you lately."

I turned toward him, still hearing the doctor's gentle voice. Do you have family here? The gray shadow on the scan. I thought, If he asks me one honest question, I'll tell him everything. Even now.

"I'm sick," I said.

He went still.

For a moment, the room stopped breathing. I saw something flicker behind his eyes-fear, maybe, or the first crack in the armor he'd worn for eight years.

Then it was gone.

"Sick," he repeated.

"I went to the hospital today. The results-"

"Abby." His voice turned flat. "Is this another attempt to get my attention-"

"It isn't."

"I've been patient. More than patient. I've listened for weeks-to the resentment, the silence, the way you look at Naomi like she took something from you. I told you why this has to happen. I explained it. I asked you to understand. I thought you did."

"I'm not asking you to change your mind about Naomi. I'm telling you that I have-"

"I don't care."

The words fell between us, heavy and final.

I could only stare at him.

"I don't care if you're sick," Nicholas said. His voice was strange-low, tight, brittle, like something he'd kept locked away too long. "I don't care what the doctor told you. For eight years, all I've heard is that something is wrong with you. You're tired. Unhappy. Fragile. Every time I turn around, there's another way I've let you down. I can't do this anymore. I have a sixty-year-old mother, a company under constant scrutiny, a daughter who needs stability, and a wife who can't give me one simple thing-understanding."

The air left my lungs.

"If you're sick, see a doctor. If you're dying, then die. Just don't use it against me tonight."

I don't think he meant for it to come out that way.

Even now, I try to give him the benefit of the doubt. I've replayed that moment a hundred times. He was exhausted, cornered, pushed too far. He said the cruelest thing the way someone might slam a door without checking who was behind it.

But the words stayed between us. He couldn't take them back.

"Fine, die."

I heard them clearly, like my name called across a crowded room.

"I understand," I said.

He blinked. Regret-or something close-crossed his face. He took half a step toward me and lifted a hand.

"Abby. I didn't-"

"It's okay."

"No, wait, I-"

"Nicholas." I gave him my most polite smile, the one I'd spent eight years perfecting for Mary. "I understand."

He went still.

He knew he'd said the wrong thing. I watched the knowledge settle over him, heavy. Pride was a hard thing to carry, and Nicholas had carried his since childhood. He only stared at me, then straightened, turned, and walked out.

The door clicked softly behind him.

I sat on the bed.

I expected tears. I waited for them, like a sneeze that never comes. But nothing happened. Just a cold, clear ringing in my head, as if someone had struck a wineglass and left it humming.

If you're dying, fine. Die.

The floorboards creaked.

I looked up.

Lily stood in the doorway in her nightgown, her stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand. Her braid had come loose, and her eyes were red and swollen. For one foolish, hopeful second, I thought she might have been crying for me.

"Lily? Honey, what's wrong?"

She didn't move. One Baer foot hovered just past the carpet, as if she expected the room to be cold.

"I heard Daddy shouting," she whispered.

"He wasn't shouting at you."

"He was shouting at you." She hugged the rabbit. "Are you sick?"

I hesitated. For a moment, I pictured another future: a door opening. She was seven and scared. Maybe I could kneel, open my arms, and she'd run to me. Maybe she'd bury her face in my neck and whisper, Mommy, don't.

I reached for her.

"Yes," I said softly. "I'm sick, baby. The doctor says-"

"Is Auntie Naomi staying?"

My hand stopped.

"What?"

"If you're sick." Her chin trembled, but her voice stayed firm-the stubborn certainty of a child who had already decided what answer she wanted. "Grandma says if you go away, Auntie Naomi can stay forever. Then nobody will fight. Daddy won't be sad. And I'll have a nice mom."

I couldn't speak.

"I don't want you to be sick," Lily whispered, her voice cracking. That small break hurt more than anything. "But I don't want you, either."

She turned and ran, her Baer feet slapping the floor, the rabbit trailing behind her.

I stood there in silence for a long time.

Finally, I picked up the folder from the bed.

Advanced. Rare. Six months. The only thing in the house that told the truth about me.

I thought about leaving it on Nicholas's desk. Giving it to Mary. Then Lily's words came back-"I don't want you, either"-and the last fragile thread inside me snapped.

I crushed the pages, then smoothed them across the vanity. My wedding ring went on top.

No note. I'd already said what mattered.

I shut the suitcase.

It was after midnight. The house was dark and quiet. No one would know I was gone until morning. Maybe later.

Six months, I thought, then turned off the light.