If I Can't Make You Stay

"You made chicken soup? Don't drink it yet. Rita's weak—she could use something nourishing."

The bowl paused in my hands. I stared at him, stunned.

"Clarice made this for me."

Quentin acted as though he hadn't heard a word. He rummaged through the cabinet, taking out a lunch box.

"I know your constitution. Chicken soup won't change anything for you. Let Rita have it this time. Next time, I'll take you to a restaurant."

Those familiar words dragged me straight back into the past.

"Cammy, I'm giving this batch to Rita first. When my allowance comes in next month, I'll make new ones for you.

"Cammy, skip the gala tonight. Give your spot to Rita. Next time the art troupe performs, I'll bring you.

"Cammy, Rita wants to meet my friends. Don't come to the gathering this time—next time, I'll take you.

"Cammy…"

So many "next times" that I'd long since lost count.

While I stood frozen, he filled the lunch box with the soup and offered a perfunctory farewell.

"I'm heading out. Take care of yourself."

He turned to leave, but the hem of his coat brushed the bowl on the table.

Clatter!

The bowl hit the floor, shattering—just like something inside me.

"Quentin."

I stopped him and pulled the glass bottle from my pocket, the one holding ninety-nine soybeans.

"Ninety-nine. Count them."

His movements stilled. He turned back to me, stunned.

"Already?"

I nodded. "Yes."

He set down what he was holding, looking troubled.

I didn't speak. I just waited for his response.

As I expected, he hesitated only briefly before saying, "Cammy… Rita can't be left alone right now…"

Guilt flashed in his eyes, but he still finished the sentence. "Our agreement… let's void it."

I lowered my gaze and sighed. "All right."

He froze, surprised that I gave in so easily. Then he pulled me into a sudden, excited embrace.

"Cammy, you're so understanding. Don't worry. Once Rita's condition stabilizes, I'll make it up to you. I promise I'll be there."

I murmured in acknowledgment, then told him the only thing I wanted. "The baby is almost due. I want a locket for the baby."

At the mention of the child, his expression softened even more.

"Alright. When I get back, I'll go to the checkup with you. We'll buy our baby the best, most beautiful locket."

My pupils trembled. The pain of losing my baby surged up again.

"Okay."

But my baby would never see it.

After he left, I stood and opened the drawer, pulling out the stack of medical records I'd arranged so neatly.

The first pregnancy confirmation.

The first prenatal exam.

The first prescription for medication to protect the baby…

On every night he wasn't home, I would take them out and read them again and again. They held the excitement of becoming a mother, and the quiet hope of a wife building a family.

But now…

I took the miscarriage report from my pocket—hands trembling—and placed it with the rest.

Tears fell, soaking the paper, like a final farewell.

I inhaled deeply and was about to close the drawer when I suddenly heard his voice behind me.

"What are you doing?"

Startled, I slammed the drawer shut and wiped the tears from my eyes.

Quentin walked toward me, his gaze fixed on the drawer.

"You're back already?"

I pressed myself against the cabinet, trying to shift the subject.

He approached, raising his hand—not toward the drawer, but toward my face.

"You've been crying?"

He stared at the moisture on his fingers, stunned and unsure what to do.