While I Lost Our Baby, My Husband Chose His Student

Camden left on a Thursday morning.

He stood in our bedroom doorway with his weekend bag slung over one shoulder, checking his phone with his free hand. Not his usual conference briefcase. Not the battered leather satchel he carried to faculty meetings. A soft-sided duffel I'd only seen him use for trips to his parents' place in Pennsylvania.

"Boston symposium," he'd said the night before. "Department chair specifically requested I lead the panel on contemporary critical theory. Three days. I tried to get out of it, but—" He'd shrugged, apologetic. "You know how Steinberg gets."

I did know. Steinberg had retired eighteen months ago.

Camden kissed my forehead. His cologne was different. Sharper. The kind he wore when we went to faculty galas.

"I'll call you tonight," he said.

"Safe flight," I said.

I stood at the window and watched his car pull out of the garage. Watched it turn left onto Amsterdam Avenue. Watched it disappear.

Then I walked back into the bedroom. Sat down on the edge of the bed. Looked at the empty space where his bag had been.

I stayed there for twenty minutes before I could make myself stand up again.

---

The first night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay in bed with all the lights off, staring at the ceiling. The apartment was too quiet. No sound of Camden brushing his teeth in the bathroom. No rustle of him turning pages in bed beside me. Just the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional car horn from the street below.

I kept seeing Meilani's face across the café table. The tilt of her head. The bracelet catching the light. The way she'd said *Camden* — easy, familiar, like she'd been saying it for years.

*We're flying to Chicago this weekend. For a concert.*

Not Boston. Chicago.

I rolled onto my side. Pulled the blanket up to my chin. My hand drifted to my stomach without thinking. Twelve weeks. The nausea had finally started to ease. At my last appointment, the doctor had smiled and said everything looked perfect.

I closed my eyes. Opened them. The clock on the nightstand said 2:14 AM.

I reached for my phone. Scrolled through my messages. Nothing from Camden. I opened our text thread. The last message was from yesterday morning: *Love you. See you soon.*

I locked the phone. Set it face-down on the nightstand.

Then I picked up *Middlemarch*. The pages fell open to a passage I'd underlined years ago, back when I was still a graduate student and Jonathan had first given me this copy.

*The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts.*

I stared at the words. Read them again. And again.

I didn't sleep until after four.

---

The second night, I made myself eat dinner. Reheated leftover pasta. Sat at the kitchen counter with my laptop open, pretending to review a draft article I'd been working on before the fertility treatments started.

I read the same paragraph six times and retained nothing.

Camden had texted once that afternoon: *Symposium running long. Probably won't be able to call tonight. Miss you.*

I'd typed *Miss you too* and deleted it. Typed *Okay* and deleted that. Finally sent back a single heart emoji.

At 9:47 PM, my phone rang.

Unknown number. New York area code.

I answered.

"Hello?"

"Is this Alaya Hoffman?" A woman's voice. Older. Shaking slightly.

"Yes."

"This is Dorothy Keene. I live next door to Gerald Hoffman. I'm calling from his house." A pause. "He collapsed about twenty minutes ago. We called an ambulance. They just took him to Mount Sinai. I found your number on his fridge. You're listed as his emergency contact."

The kitchen tilted.

"Is he—"

"I don't know, honey. He was conscious when they took him, but—" Her voice cracked. "You should come."

"I'm on my way."

I hung up. My hands were shaking.

I called Camden.

Six rings. Voicemail.

I called again.

Six rings. Voicemail.

I grabbed my coat from the hook by the door. Found my keys. My purse. My phone.

I called a third time as I locked the apartment door behind me.

Voicemail.

I left a message. My voice came out steadier than I expected.

"Your father has collapsed. I'm going to him. Please call me back."

I hung up. Pressed the elevator button. Waited.

My hand drifted to my stomach again. Twelve weeks.

The elevator doors opened.

I stepped inside.

And I realized, with a clarity so sharp it felt like something breaking open in my chest, that I was completely alone.