Chapter 1: The Delivery Room

The hospital room was freezing—so cold my teeth nearly chattered, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones no matter how many stiff, scratchy blankets they pile on you. Antiseptic hung heavy in the air, a sharp tang that burned my nose. The faint beeping of monitors cut through the silence, and somewhere down the hall, a nurse hummed an off-key tune to herself. I kept flicking my eyes to my phone, searching for an escape in its blue glow, or maybe just for the guts to bolt for the parking lot. There was Natalie—her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, cradling the baby, looking more relieved than I’d ever seen her. She was glowing, beaming, but me? It was like swallowing glass I couldn’t spit back up.

I really don’t get it—having a baby is just having a baby, so why did nobody warn me that when a baby comes, sometimes everything else just... comes out too?

You never see that part in those cutesy birthing videos. They always cut to the baby’s first cry, never the mess that comes before. It blindsided me. It wasn’t just shocking—it was like watching a car wreck in slow motion, something so horrifying you can’t look away, even though you desperately want to.

The smell hit me first. Thick and raw and almost sweet, like something dying. I felt stripped, humiliated—like I’d lost all dignity just by being in the room.

That scent stuck in my nose for hours after I left. I scrubbed my hands raw in the men’s room, but nothing helped. My skin felt tainted, like the mess wasn’t just on her, but all over me, too.

What really threw me was how, during her recovery, Natalie would smile at me and say, “Babe, just hang in there a little longer. Once I’m healed up, we can be close again.”

She’d say it quietly, the TV playing some sitcom in the background, the baby monitor between us like a tiny, blinking judge. There was hope in her eyes, and I tried to fake a smile. Inside, all I wanted was to slam the door behind me, crank up the radio, and drive until none of this felt real anymore.

When I looked at her loose, sagging belly, I felt nauseated and—God help me—a little amused.

It was a twisted, ugly kind of amusement—like watching a sitcom that should’ve ended three seasons ago. I’d catch myself staring when she changed shirts, my mind going blank before disgust washed over me. Sometimes I’d crack a joke to myself, trying to lighten the mood, but it always made things worse.

And honestly? I never really had to put up with anything at all.

Natalie ran the show—she did the bills, made the appointments, even sent my parents their anniversary cards. I drifted through it all, barely lifting a finger.

By month five of her pregnancy, I’d already started messaging my high school sweetheart again, behind Natalie’s back.

I made every excuse in the book, telling myself I deserved something different—something less... messy. That’s what I whispered to myself every time I sent Lillian a text and deleted the thread before Natalie could see.