He Slept With My Sister, When I Was Giving Birth

Evelyn

The hospital room was too bright, too sterile. I lay in bed, exhausted beyond words, staring at the ceiling tiles. Twelve hours of labor. Twelve hours of fighting to bring my daughter safely into this world, two months before she was ready.

The door opened, and I tensed, turning my head with effort.

Damon walked in, still wearing yesterday's clothes. His tie hung loose around his neck, his hair disheveled. And there, on his collar—a smudge of pink lipstick that might as well have been written in blood.

My stomach knotted at the sight. He hadn't even bothered to change. Or to shower. Or to hide the evidence.

He stopped at the foot of my bed, hands in his pockets, keeping his distance like I was contagious.

"I heard you gave birth this morning," he said, his voice flat. "Congratulations."

That single word hung in the air between us. Congratulations. As if I'd just aced an exam or won a small lottery. Not like I'd spent half a day fighting for our baby's life while he was somewhere else. With someone else.

"Where have you been?" I asked. My voice came out as a raspy whisper after hours of screaming through contractions. "I could have died if it weren't for Luis."

He blinked. "Luis?"

"The gardener," I clarified. "He's the one who brought me to the hospital. He's the one who stayed until they took me into delivery."

Damon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, almost looking uncomfortable for a split second. But he didn't answer my question. Didn't explain why he'd ignored my calls all night. Didn't even ask about his own daughter.

"I had a freaking premature birth," I said, each word sharper than the last, "all because I'm marked by a cheating mate..." My voice broke, tears spilling down my cheeks. "And all you can say is congratulations?"

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, maybe, or just annoyance at being inconvenienced by my emotions.

"I have no time to exchange words with you, Evelyn." He straightened his tie, a gesture so normal it felt wrong in the middle of all this.

And just like that, he turned and walked away. As if I were nothing. As if our daughter were nothing.

I closed my eyes, letting the tears fall freely now. I'd known our marriage was in trouble. I'd felt his growing distance, seen the signs. But I never thought he'd abandon us when we needed him most. That wound would never fully heal, I knew. Some betrayals cut too deep.

A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. A nurse stood there, a tiny bundle swaddled in her arms.

"Someone's been missing her mama," she said softly.

As she placed my daughter in my arms, something warm stirred inside my cold, broken heart. She was so small, so fragile, her skin almost see-through. But she was fighting. Her tiny chest rose and fell with determined breaths, her miniature fingers curled into defiant fists.

"Hello, little one," I whispered, tracing the curve of her cheek with my finger. For a moment, the ache in my heart subsided, replaced by something fiercer, more powerful. I would protect her. I would give her the love her father couldn't.

It was a sad thing, to be born into a home with a father like Damon. But she would have me. And somehow, that would have to be enough.

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