After His Daughter Targeted Me, I Wanted a Divorce

The storm hit at midnight.

I'd been in bed for an hour, exhausted. Morning sickness had gotten worse. I'd spent most of the day in the bathroom, retching until my ribs ached. Now I lay on my side, one hand on my belly, listening to thunder roll across Manhattan.

The bedroom door creaked open.

I lifted my head. Shiloh stood in the doorway, backlit by the hall light. She wore a white nightgown. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders.

'Aurora?' Her voice was small. Trembling.

Another crack of thunder. She flinched, started crying.

'I'm scared,' she whispered. 'Can I sleep here? Please?'

Every instinct I'd sharpened over the past weeks screamed no. But she looked so small. So frightened. And some part of me — the part that still wanted to be good, to be kind — couldn't say no to a crying child.

'Okay,' I said quietly. 'Come on.'

She crossed the room and climbed onto the bed. Roman stirred beside me, half-asleep. 'Good girl, Aurora,' he mumbled. Then he rolled over and his breathing deepened again.

Shiloh settled between us. I shifted to give her space, my back to her now, facing the windows. Rain lashed the glass. Lightning lit up the skyline in sharp white bursts.

I felt her move. Adjusting her position. Getting comfortable.

Then pain exploded through my stomach.

Her feet — both of them — slammed into my belly with full force. Once. Twice. Three times. Deliberate. Vicious.

I screamed.

The sound tore out of me, raw and animal. I doubled over, arms wrapped around my stomach, trying to protect what was inside.

'Roman!' I gasped. 'Roman!'

He shot upright, confused. 'What — what happened?'

Shiloh was wailing. Loud, hysterical sobs. 'I didn't mean to! I had a nightmare! I didn't mean to kick!'

'Aurora?' Roman grabbed my shoulders. 'What's wrong?'

I couldn't speak. The pain was white-hot, radiating through my abdomen. I looked down. The sheets were dark. Wet.

Blood.

'Oh God,' Roman said. 'Oh God, Aurora.'

He grabbed his phone. Dialed 911. His voice sounded far away. I kept my hands pressed to my stomach, whispering please please please.

Shiloh cried harder. 'I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! Don't be mad!'

The ambulance came. Paramedics lifted me onto a stretcher. The ride was a blur of pain and flashing lights and Roman's hand gripping mine too tight.

At the hospital, they rushed me into a room. Doctors shouted orders. Nurses hooked me to monitors. I heard the word hemorrhage. The word miscarriage.

'Please,' I begged. 'Please save my baby.'

A doctor leaned over me, her face calm. 'We're doing everything we can. Try to stay still.'

Roman stood beside the bed, white-faced. I reached for his hand. Held it. Don't leave me, I thought. Please don't leave me.

Then I heard it.

From the hallway. Shiloh's voice, screaming.

'Daddy! Daddy, where are you?'

Roman's head turned toward the door.

'Daddy, please! Everyone leaves me! Mommy left and now you're leaving!'

Her screams turned into hyperventilating sobs. I heard nurses trying to calm her. She wasn't calming.

'Sir, she's having a panic attack,' a nurse said, appearing in the doorway. 'She's asking for you.'

Roman looked at me. At the monitors. At the blood-soaked sheets.

Then he looked toward the hallway.

'I'll be right back,' he said.

He squeezed my hand and walked out.

I lay there. Alone. Bleeding. Hooked to machines that beeped and whirred.

Minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. An hour.

The doctor came back. 'The bleeding's stopped. The baby's heartbeat is strong. But you're at high risk. Complete bed rest. No stress. No physical activity.'

I nodded. I didn't cry. I just stared at the ceiling.

Two more hours passed.

Finally, Roman appeared in the doorway. His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were red.

'Aurora,' he started. 'I'm sorry. She was — she couldn't breathe. I had to —'

'Get out,' I said.

My voice was flat. Empty.

'What?'

'Get out.'

He stepped closer. 'You don't mean that. You're upset. I understand —'

'You left me.' I turned my head and looked at him. Really looked. 'I was bleeding. Losing our baby. And you left me for her.'

'She's a child —'

'So is this.' I put my hand on my belly. 'But you made your choice.'

He opened his mouth. Closed it. For once, he had nothing to say.

'Get out,' I said again.

He left.

I lay in the dark, staring at the monitor beside my bed. The baby's heartbeat pulsed steady and strong. A tiny fighter.

I wasn't crying. I wasn't angry.

I was done.

Something inside me had cracked open during those three hours alone. Not my heart. Something colder. Harder.

I wasn't going to be a victim anymore.

I was going to be smart.