After His Daughter Targeted Me, I Wanted a Divorce

I spent three days researching how to bond with traumatized children. I read articles about attachment disorders, bought picture books about grief, and even watched YouTube tutorials on how to braid hair in different styles. I wanted this to work. For Roman. For me. For the baby growing inside me that Shiloh would someday call a sibling.

The first morning, I knocked softly on her door. 'Shiloh? I thought maybe we could braid your hair today. I saw some cute styles online.'

She sat on the edge of her bed, clutching that matted rabbit, and stared at me with those empty eyes.

'No,' she said. Just that. No explanation.

I tried again at breakfast. 'What's your favorite food? I could make it for dinner.'

She didn't answer. Roman intervened, pulling a notebook from his briefcase. 'I made a list, actually. Her favorites, allergies, that sort of thing.'

I took the list, my stomach twisting. He'd been so thorough. So prepared.

That night, I found her in the living room, watching cartoons. I sat beside her, careful to leave space. 'Would you like me to read you a bedtime story?'

She flinched when I reached for her hand. A full-body recoil, like my touch burned. 'Don't,' she whispered.

But the moment Roman walked in, something shifted. Her face lit up. She scrambled off the couch and ran to him, arms outstretched. 'Daddy! Read with me!'

Daddy. She called him Daddy.

Roman caught my eye over her head. 'She's warming up to you,' he said later, when we were alone. 'You're doing great with her.'

I wasn't. She hated me. But Roman was so proud, so relieved, I couldn't bring myself to argue.

Our date nights disappeared. Roman would come home, kiss my cheek, and say, 'I need to spend some time with Shiloh tonight. She had another nightmare.'

I'd watch from the doorway as he sat cross-legged on her floor, reading the same story for the fifth time. His voice was warm, patient. He never once looked bored or frustrated.

The morning I finally told him about the baby, I'd rehearsed it a dozen times. I wanted him to be happy. To share in the joy I'd been carrying alone.

'It's official,' I said over breakfast, my voice trembling with excitement. 'I'm pregnant.'

Roman looked up from his phone. Smiled. 'That's wonderful, babe.'

And then he turned back to Shiloh's plate, carefully cutting her pancakes into triangles. 'Do you want syrup on these, sweetheart?'

That afternoon, I sat alone in the OB's office, staring at the ultrasound screen. The technician's cheerful voice felt distant. 'There's your baby. Strong heartbeat.'

Roman was at the zoo with Shiloh. She'd had another nightmare, he'd texted. She really needed a good day.

I placed my hand on my belly and felt something crack open inside me. Not my heart. Something colder. Something that made me look at the world differently.

The morning of the oil incident, I woke early. Roman had left for the office by six — some emergency meeting. Shiloh was still asleep.

I padded to the kitchen in my socks, thinking about tea. Then my feet went out from under me.

The marble floor was slick with oil. Premium avocado oil — the expensive kind I used for special dinners. A full bottle, poured deliberately across the tiles.

I caught myself on the counter, hands flying to my stomach. My heart hammered against my ribs. If I'd fallen…

'Are you okay, Aurora?'

Shiloh stood in the doorway, her stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand. For half a second, her face did something. A flicker. Satisfaction. Calculation.

Then it was gone, replaced by wide-eyed concern.

'You're bleeding,' she said, pointing to my knee.

I looked down. A small scrape. Nothing serious.

'Maria!' Shiloh called out, her voice high and worried. 'Aurora fell!'

Maria appeared moments later, taking in the scene. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she helped me up. 'Let me clean this up,' she said.

Later, I found her in the pantry, tucking something into her pocket. The empty oil bottle. She'd found it behind the trash can.

She saw me watching and gave me a look. A small, meaningful look.

'Some things,' she said quietly, 'are not accidents.'