After My Husband Called Me a Murderer, I Chose Myself

I woke up early. The sun was barely up. The guest room was cold. I heard Kolson moving around in the master bedroom down the hall. He showered. He dressed. He walked down the stairs. He didn't knock on my door. He didn't say goodbye. The front door clicked shut. The lock turned. The house fell completely silent.

I got out of bed. I pulled my old suitcase from the closet. It was the same small black suitcase I brought when I moved in three years ago. I opened it on the floor. I packed methodically. I took my jeans, my sweaters, and my plain cotton shirts. I took my toothbrush and my sneakers.

I opened my jewelry box. The diamond necklace Kolson bought me for our anniversary sparkled in the dim light. I left it there. I left the designer handbags in the closet. I left the silk dresses. I only took what was mine before him.

I zipped the bag closed. The sound was loud and harsh in the quiet room. I walked down the stairs. I passed the kitchen. The prenatal vitamins were still lined up neatly on the granite counter. I stared at the plastic bottles. I didn't touch them. I walked out the front door and locked it behind me.

I drove to Koreatown. I rented a small studio apartment on the second floor of a dingy building. It was bare. It was cheap. The walls were paper thin. I could hear the loud hum of street traffic and the wail of sirens outside. The bed was narrow and pushed hard against the wall. The mattress was thin. There was one small window looking out at a dirty brick wall.

It was nothing like the massive Malibu house with the ocean view. But it was mine. I set my suitcase on the floor. I didn't unpack. I didn't sit down. I had somewhere else to be.

I drove back to Cedars-Sinai. I walked through the sliding glass doors. The hospital smelled like bleach and old coffee. I sat in Dr. Ramos's office again. The air conditioning still hummed that same low tune.

Dr. Ramos sat across from me. He looked tired. He leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk.

"Selena," he said gently. "The leukemia is aggressive. It is moving fast. We need to start chemotherapy immediately."

I looked at his hands. "And the baby?" I asked. My voice was completely flat.

He shook his head slowly. He didn't look away from my eyes. "The pregnancy is incompatible with the treatment protocol. The chemo will destroy it. If we wait to treat you, you won't survive the term."

I stared at him. My chest felt incredibly tight. "Say it again," I whispered.

Dr. Ramos swallowed hard. His dark eyes were full of deep, heavy sorrow. "You cannot keep the baby and fight this cancer, Selena. You have to choose your life."

I closed my eyes. The room felt freezing. I thought about the grainy ultrasound I never got to see yesterday. I thought about the tiny heartbeat I wanted to hear. Then I thought about Kolson walking through the door at 2 AM. I thought about the sweet, heavy smell of Brynlee’s perfume on his shirt. I thought about the lipstick smudge on his jaw.

I was fighting for my life. He was picking up his first love from the airport.

"Okay," I said. I opened my eyes. "Give me the form."

He slid a thick piece of paper across the desk. It was a consent form to terminate the pregnancy. He handed me a black pen. I took it. My hand didn't shake. I signed my name on the dotted line. The ink was dark and permanent.

"We will schedule it for tomorrow morning," Dr. Ramos said quietly. "I'm so sorry, Selena."

I nodded. I stood up and walked out of his office.

I made it to the elevator at the end of the hall. I stepped inside. The metal doors slid closed. I was finally alone. I leaned back against the cold wall. My legs gave out instantly. I slid down to the floor. I pressed my palm flat against my stomach. It was still slightly swollen.

I closed my eyes and let the tears fall. I cried silently. My chest heaved. I couldn't catch my breath. I didn't wail. I just held my stomach tight. "I'm sorry," I whispered to the empty car. "I'm so sorry." It was my only goodbye.

I wiped my face. I stood up when the elevator reached the lobby. I walked out of the hospital and got into my car. The Los Angeles sun was bright and hot.

I sat in the driver's seat. I pulled out my phone. I had a pink copy of the consent form in my hand. I placed it on the passenger seat. I opened my camera. I took a picture of it. The photo was clear. My signature was right there at the bottom. The words 'Pregnancy Termination Consent' were printed bold at the top.

I opened my text messages. I clicked on Kolson’s name. There were no new texts from him. He hadn't checked on me all morning.

I attached the photo. I didn't type a single word. I didn't explain the cancer. I didn't tell him about my tears in the elevator. I didn't beg for his attention. This wasn't a plea. It wasn't an accusation. It was a period at the end of a very long sentence. It was a final, wordless farewell to everything I once hoped our life would be.

I pressed send.

The image delivered. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I started the engine and drove back to my narrow bed in Koreatown.