Husband's Obsession Costs All

The doorbell rang at precisely 9 AM. I wiped my eyes, still puffy from last night's tears, and opened the door to find a delivery man holding an enormous bouquet of white roses.

"Delivery for Mr. Gardner," he announced cheerfully.

I signed for the flowers, my fingers trembling slightly. White roses—Lyla's favorite. I remembered Troy mentioning it once, offhandedly, years ago. The card attached read simply: "Welcome home, L."

Home. As if this was her home. As if I were the intruder.

I placed the roses on the entryway table, then sneezed violently. My allergies had always been mild, but today they felt fierce, punitive. I fumbled for my antihistamines in my purse.

By noon, another delivery arrived—a cake from Sweet Tooth Bakery, Troy's favorite. The delivery girl handed me a card.

"To celebrate new beginnings," it read in Troy's handwriting.

I lifted the lid and my stomach lurched. Mango cake. My severe allergy that had sent me to the emergency room twice since we'd been married.

"Troy knows I can't eat this," I whispered to myself, staring at the golden fruit embedded in cream frosting.

That evening, Troy came home carrying a bottle of champagne.

"I made reservations at Sizzling Pot," he announced, setting the bottle on the counter. "Seven o'clock."

My blood ran cold. "Hot pot? Troy, you know I can't—"

"It's not for you," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Lyla loves it. She's been craving authentic Chinese since she got back."

The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. "You made dinner reservations for Lyla? Using my allergies as an excuse not to include me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Clara." He sighed, pouring himself a glass of water. "Lyla's been traveling for months. She needs comfort food."

"And what about me?" My voice cracked. "I'm your wife."

Troy's eyes hardened. "You're being selfish and controlling again. This is exactly why I didn't tell you about seeing her."

I stared at him, this stranger wearing my husband's face.

---

Two weeks later, I sat in Dr. Mitchell's office, staring at the small plus sign on the pregnancy test.

"Congratulations, Clara," Dr. Mitchell said warmly. "You're about six weeks along."

Joy bloomed in my chest—pure, untainted happiness for the first time in months. A baby. Our baby.

"I'd like to tell Troy tonight," I told Dr. Mitchell, already planning a special dinner. "Make it memorable."

I spent hours preparing Troy's favorite meal—roasted duck with orange glaze, garlic mashed potatoes, and haricots verts. I set the table with our wedding china and lit candles around the dining room.

When Troy came home, I could see the surprise in his eyes.

"What's the occasion?" he asked cautiously.

"Sit down," I said, my heart racing. "I have news."

We sat across from each other, the candlelight dancing between us. I took a deep breath.

"I'm pregnant."

Troy's fork clattered against his plate. "You're... what?"

"Six weeks," I said, unable to keep the smile from my face. "We're going to have a baby."

Instead of joy or excitement, a shadow crossed his face. He set down his napkin and leaned back in his chair.

"Are you sure about the timing?" he asked carefully.

The question hit me like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I have some important business developments coming up. Things that could change everything for us."

Business developments. Code for Lyla.

"This baby is 'us,' Troy," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "This is our future."

He wouldn't meet my eyes.

---

The argument started over dinner and escalated as the night wore on.

"You're putting her before our baby!" I shouted, my voice hoarse from crying.

"Don't be dramatic," Troy snapped back. "This is about business connections."

"Business!" I laughed bitterly. "Is that what you call meeting her for dinner three nights this week?"

A sharp pain lanced through my abdomen, stealing my breath mid-sentence. I clutched at my stomach, panic rising.

"Troy," I gasped, "something's wrong."

His face paled as he saw me double over. "Clara?"

The pain intensified, radiating through my lower back. I felt a warm wetness between my legs.

"Troy," I whispered, "I think I'm losing our baby."

The next hours passed in a blur of pain and tears. Dr. Mitchell diagnosed severe gastritis brought on by stress, but the damage was done. Our baby was gone.

I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling as nurses moved quietly around me. The room was dim, the only sound the steady beep of monitors.

Hours passed. No Troy.

When he finally appeared, his collar was askew and his eyes couldn't meet mine.

"Where were you?" I asked, my voice hollow.

"The audition," he said vaguely. "Lyla had her callback today. I couldn't miss it."

I turned my face away as tears slid silently down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry about the baby," he added, not sounding sorry at all. "But maybe it's for the best. The timing just wasn't right."