I went into the hospital at thirty-eight weeks carrying a baby I would never bring home.

For nine months, I had imagined nursery colors, tiny socks, the soft, powdery scent of a newborn’s skin. I’d planned my life in gentle, hopeful fragments. Then everything collapsed into a sterile room filled with beeping machines and voices that spoke too carefully. When the doctor said there was no heartbeat, it felt less like hearing words and more like my body splitting open from the inside.

I remember sobbing in the hospital bed when my husband arrived. I expected him to crumble with me, to wrap me up and shield me from the unbearable truth. Instead, Harrison sat down in the plastic chair by the wall, glanced at his watch, and sighed.

“This is a relief,” he said evenly. “Now we can split up without guilt.”

Something inside me shattered completely. The sound that tore out of my chest didn’t feel human. It was grief and shock and disbelief colliding all at once. Harrison didn’t react. He stood, straightened his coat, and walked out of the room as if he were leaving a meeting that had run overtime.I was left alone in the dim maternity ward, surrounded by the muffled cries of living babies and the quiet footsteps of nurses who didn’t know where to look.

The next day, I was discharged into a world that no longer felt real. Everything looked washed out, as though someone had drained all the color from my life. I needed to collect a few things from the house in North London before going to my parents’ place in the countryside. The house smelled of lilies people had sent out of obligation and pity. The scent made my stomach turn.

In the kitchen, I reached for a glass of water, my hands trembling. That’s when I noticed a small amber bottle tucked behind the toaster, half hidden by unopened mail. Inside were tiny white tablets, unfamiliar and unlabelled for either of us. The prescription name wasn’t mine or Harrison’s. It belonged to someone I’d never heard of.

I sat at the table, the silence pressing in on me, and searched the medication online. I expected to find something benign—antidepressants, maybe. Instead, the results made my breath catch. The drug was a powerful hormonal medication known, in high doses, to disrupt late-term pregnancies. The prescription had been filled two weeks earlier.

Grief gave way to something colder.

I knew my marriage had been failing, but this… this was unthinkable. I had followed every medical instruction perfectly. My baby had been healthy until suddenly she wasn’t. I slipped the bottle into my pocket, my sorrow sharpening into suspicion.

Instead of driving to my parents’ house, I went to the pharmacy listed on the label. I told the pharmacist, a gentle-spoken man named Mr. Whitaker, that I’d found the medication in my home and feared there’d been a mistake. He checked the system, then frowned.“This was collected by a man claiming to be the patient’s husband,” he said quietly. “The patient is a woman named Elise Vance.”

The name knocked the air out of me. Elise was Harrison’s old girlfriend—the one he’d always dismissed as a harmless friend from long ago. Suddenly, everything aligned in a way that made me nauseous.

I sat in my car for a long time, watching rain streak the windshield, before doing something I never imagined I would. I drove to Elise’s address.She answered the door with one hand resting protectively on a visibly pregnant belly. She was glowing in that unmistakable way expectant mothers do, her eyes bright with anticipation. Behind her, an ultrasound photo was pinned to a corkboard—the same one Harrison had once claimed was a stock image for work.