Her Sacrifice for His Love

The hospital discharged me three days later, though "discharged" felt like a misnomer. I wasn't getting better. I was simply dying more slowly at home.

"You'll need someone to stay with you," Dr. Chen had said, her eyes flicking meaningfully toward Jackson.

"I'll take care of her," Jackson had promised, squeezing my hand with a conviction that made my heart ache. "I've already cleared my schedule for the next week."

I wanted to believe him.

The first two days were almost bearable. Jackson brought me tea in bed, helped me shower when my legs were too weak, and even read aloud from books I'd never finish. For brief moments, I could pretend this was just another rough patch we'd weather together.

Then Megan's texts started.

"Jackson, I'm having these weird pains again."

"Jackson, the baby's kicking so hard. Is that normal?"

"Jackson, I'm scared. Can you come over?"

At first, he tried to handle them discreetly—quick glances at his phone, hushed conversations in the hallway. But as the messages increased, so did his anxiety.

"I need to take this," he'd say, already standing. "It's about the baby."

I'd nod, watching him pace the hallway just outside our bedroom door, his voice low but urgent. "Yes, I understand... No, don't worry... I'll be there if you need me..."

The walls were thin. I heard every word, every reassurance meant for another woman.

By the third day, he was spending more time in the hallway than in the bedroom with me. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to him comfort the woman who was systematically replacing me.

---

The doorbell rang on the fourth day.

"I'll get it," Jackson said, practically jumping from his chair beside my bed.

I heard the front door open, followed by a familiar voice that made my stomach clench.

"Jackson! Thank goodness you're home. I've been trying to reach you."

Megan.

"I brought those papers you needed for the baby's insurance," she continued, her voice honey-sweet. "And I thought I'd check on Phoebe too, of course."

Before I could protest, Jackson appeared in the doorway. "Megan's here with some documents. I'll just be a minute."

He disappeared again, leaving me alone with the knowledge that she was in our home—our sanctuary—invading the last space I had left.

I heard her heels clicking on the hardwood floors, growing closer. Then she appeared in the doorway, one hand resting protectively over her slightly rounded belly.

"Phoebe," she said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "You poor thing. You look absolutely terrible."

Jackson returned before I could respond. "Megan says she has some forms for me to sign."

"Of course," I whispered, watching as Megan stepped into our bedroom—my bedroom—like she belonged there.

She moved around the room with practiced ease, picking up trinkets and photos as if appraising their worth. When she reached the nightstand, she paused, studying a framed photograph of Jackson and me at the beach last summer.

"Oh, what a lovely picture," she said, lifting it carefully.

Then, with a movement too deliberate to be accidental, she tilted it just enough for it to slip from her fingers.

The glass shattered against the floor, the sound like ice breaking in my chest.

"I'm so sorry!" she gasped, not sounding sorry at all. "It was slippery."

Jackson rushed to clean up the mess while Megan stood over me, her expression transforming into a cold, triumphant smirk when his back was turned.

"He'll be mine soon," she mouthed silently. "The baby needs its father."

---

"Tonight will be different," Jackson promised that evening, setting candles on our small dining table. "I owe you an apology for your birthday. For everything."

The table was beautiful—my favorite wine (which I could no longer drink), fresh flowers, and all my favorite foods arranged perfectly on the plates.

"It looks lovely," I said, managing a small smile despite the ache in my chest.

Jackson pulled out my chair, and for a moment, I could pretend we were normal again—just a couple having dinner, with no life-threatening conditions or other women carrying his child.

We'd barely taken our first bites when his phone rang.

Megan's ringtone.

Jackson glanced at the screen, his expression immediately shifting from relaxed to tense. "I have to take this."

"Jackson—"

"Phoebe, I'm sorry."

He answered the call, and I watched his face drain of color. "What? How much blood? No, don't move—I'm coming right now."

He ended the call and was already reaching for his keys. "I have to go. It's the baby."

I nodded slowly, setting down my fork. The food tasted like ash in my mouth.

"Go," I said simply.

He hesitated at the door, perhaps waiting for me to beg him to stay, to choose me just once.

But I didn't. I couldn't anymore.

"Phoebe, I—"

"It's okay," I interrupted, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I heard his excuses again.

As the door closed behind him, I didn't cry. Something inside me had finally broken beyond repair—not my heart, which had been breaking slowly for months, but my hope.

I was alone now, truly alone, and maybe that was better than pretending otherwise.