While I Suffered, He Bought Cake for His First Love

It all started because I failed to hold the cake Orion asked to buy securely. My husband, furious, abandoned me—eight months pregnant—on the side of a highway.

As cars raced past, I frantically dialed his number over and over. When he finally answered, his voice was ice cold.

“Marigold rarely comes back to Washington, and he specifically asked for that cake. If you’d held it properly, I wouldn’t have to go back to buy it again,” he snapped.

“I—”

“Figure out how to get home yourself.” He hung up before I could even respond.

This was the man who once swore I was his everything. How had he changed so much since Marigold’s return?

My chest ached, my stomach tightened painfully, and a dark thought surfaced. I called the hospital.

“Can an induced abortion be arranged at eight months?” I asked, my voice trembling.

——

I clung to the guardrail as cars zoomed by, each one a blur of light and motion. Step by step, I walked several kilometers, my feet swollen and throbbing, until a kind driver finally stopped to help me reach the highway exit.

At the intersection, I stood waiting for a taxi, exhaustion and despair dulling my senses. Yet, beneath the numbness, a storm of emotion brewed.

Then, I heard it—familiar voices murmuring nearby. I turned my head and saw Marigold, standing with their old classmates, their laughter ringing out as if I didn’t exist.

Marigold was there, so the others didn’t dare acknowledge me.

“Orion’s hosting today. Why isn’t he here yet?”

“Who knows? With Marigold around, who would even dare to rush him?”

Marigold casually made a phone call, her voice light and commanding. “Orion, did you buy the cake? I want it now. You better be here in half an hour!”

She ended the call with a laugh, but as her gaze swept over me, her eyes narrowed with disdain. She had recognized me long ago. I realized then that the call wasn’t just about the cake—it was meant for me to hear.

My husband, the man who once claimed to love me beyond words, had left me, heavily pregnant, and traveled thousands of miles just because Marigold wanted dessert.

After they left, I stood in the drizzle, my emotions a chaotic storm. I dialed the hospital again, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

“Doctor, the baby is eight months old. Can it still be induced?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Then, the doctor’s voice came, hesitant. “It’s almost full-term. It can be done, but the father’s consent is required.”

“Alright.”

The doctor started to say something else, but I ended the call abruptly.

The rain dripped steadily as I opened the taxi app, offering an extra fare to find a ride faster. Just then, Orion’s name lit up my screen. I hesitated before answering.

“Please arrange the food for tonight at the hotel first. I probably won’t make it back in time,” he said, his tone casual, as if nothing was amiss.

“Lucinda, did you hear me?” he added, using the name he reserved when he wanted my immediate attention.

“Oh, and Marigold loves the stewed dishes from the restaurant downstairs. Ask them to deliver it quickly. If it rains too much, the food won’t be as good.”

I stayed silent, my mind racing.

“I don’t have time to buy it myself,” Orion continued. “There’s something urgent I need to take care of.”

His “urgent matter” was nothing more than another command from Marigold.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t agree, nor did I refuse.

“Orion, we’re leaving—” My voice cracked, and before I could finish, tears streamed down my face.

On the other end, his voice interrupted, tinged with irritation. “Alright, don’t distract me while I’m driving. Just get everything done, as usual.”

He didn’t even hesitate. Perhaps he had left me stranded so many times that he believed I would always manage to sort things out on my own, no matter how much it hurt. After all, wasn’t I supposed to “consider the bigger picture,” as he always said?

But this time was different. I was tired—bone-deep, soul-crushingly tired.

When I finally made it home, I collapsed onto the bed, barely able to keep my eyes open. Just as sleep began to claim me, a knock came at the door.

Frustration boiled over, and I swore to myself: this time, I’d end it. I’d divorce him, no matter what.

Dragging myself to the door, I opened it to find not him, but a staff member from the maternity and baby store.

“Mrs. Steele,” she began politely, “you haven’t provided the name of the child’s father for the crib you customized. I couldn’t reach you by phone, so I came in person.”

The words hit me like a slap. I forced a smile, the corners of my mouth trembling. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want the crib anymore.”

The staff member blinked in confusion. “But you’ve already paid most of the amount. You’re just short of the balance. Doesn’t that mean—”