Chapter 4

The call ended.

I set the phone down and noticed my hands were trembling slightly.

Not from fear. From the sudden, crystalline clarity of something I'd been trying not to acknowledge: in three years of marriage, I had never really known this man.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

"Where to, miss?"

"The airport."

"What time's your flight?"

"I have time."

He nodded and said nothing more.

The car kept moving.

Sunlight came through the window, warm against my face. I closed my eyes.

Derek's last words drifted back: Then don't regret this.

Regret what, exactly? Regret not continuing to work through the pain so he could make his mortgage payments? Regret not letting the baby come into a rental apartment? Regret not handing over my $85,000 renovation money to a gambling addict?

I didn't know what he meant by regret.

I only knew this: the single most unregrettable decision I had ever made was turning around — test result still in hand — and choosing to leave.

The plane was lifting off when I pressed my face to the oval window and watched the city shrink away below.

Three years ago, when I left for the wedding, my mother cried the whole way to the car. You're a married woman now, she said. Be sensible. Don't be difficult.

Three years later, she cried again as she watched me go. If it gets too hard, come home, she said. Mom will take care of you.

I thought: that is the whole difference between being a mother and being a daughter.

The plane pushed through the clouds. Sunlight flooded in. I shut my eyes.

Derek's don't regret this was still circling somewhere in the back of my mind, but I was tired of giving it space.

Some things, once missed, stay missed.

We landed at dusk.

I hauled my suitcase out of the terminal, and the Southern air hit me — warm, heavy, carrying a smell of greenery I didn't recognize.

This was my first time in this city. No friends, no family, no one who knew my name.

That was fine.

The rideshare driver was a local with a thick accent, chatty the whole way — recommending restaurants, pointing out neighborhoods, asking if I liked seafood.

I listened and made sounds of agreement at intervals.

Outside, the city moved past in flashes — high-rises, live oak trees draped in Spanish moss, covered walkways, night market stalls.

I'd booked a short-term rental on my phone. One month, to start.

The apartment was in the historic district, third floor of an old building, the staircase barely wide enough for one person. The landlady was a woman in her mid-fifties with curly hair and a voice that carried.

"All on your own, honey? Where are you from?"

"Up north."

"I love that. Northern girls are so tall." She showed me around — how to work the hot water heater, where the air conditioning remote was, what time the front door locked. Then she looked at me. "Have you been crying?"

I went still.

She waved a hand. "None of my business. But listen — if you need anything, I'm right downstairs. Day or night."

She left.

I closed the door and stood in the middle of the room. Small — one bedroom, one living area, old furniture, but spotless. Outside the window, an enormous old oak tree spread its branches, trailing curtains of Spanish moss that swayed across half the sky.

I stood by the window for a long time.

Then I started unpacking. Clothes into the wardrobe. Toiletries arranged in the bathroom. Laptop on the desk.

Three years ago, I'd done this same thing. Derek had come to help me move into our new place — empty rooms, still smelling of paint — and he'd stood in the middle of the living room, turned in a slow circle, and grinned. This is our home now, Nina.

I'd said: Yeah.

The renovation took three months. I managed every detail — every tile, every light fixture, my choices. After that, we paid the mortgage every month, his income and mine together. When I was pregnant and cramping and wanted a half-day off for a prenatal appointment, he said it wasn't worth losing the pay.

I pushed through the pain. Kept working.

And now? All of it was gone.

My phone lit up with messages.

Mom: Did you make it? Have you eaten?

I typed back: Yes. Ate. Don't worry.

My lawyer: Opposing counsel reached out. They want to negotiate.

I thought for a moment, then replied: No negotiation. Let the court decide.

Then an unknown number — a text message.

Nina, it's Margaret. Come home. We can talk this through like adults. You're carrying our family's child and what you did is going to come back to you. Mark my words.

I read it twice. Deleted it. Blocked the number.

A second unknown number.

Nina, it's Ryan. I didn't know it would go this far. I'll close the shop. I'll return the money. Please come back.

I read it. Didn't reply. Didn't block it either. Just set the phone aside and kept unpacking.

The shop was already open. The money was already spent. Whatever he claimed he wanted to give back — Derek and Margaret would never let him.

Whether he returned it or not had nothing to do with me anymore.

The baby was already gone.

It was too late.