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MELANIE

What kind of father misses his daughter's 2nd birthday without an excuse?

A sane person would think none, right?

Well Saint fucking Evers would burst your mind and give you a run for your money.

He's my husband and my child's father. He's also the bane of my existence and the source of my reoccurring pain each passing day.

It's so painfully obvious what's happening. Ever since my doctor confirmed my fertility issues were making a second pregnancy almost impossible, Saint had completely checked out.

Or rather, he’d changed. First came the obsession... he wanted a boy, an heir, another baby to prove something to his family. But when my body refused to cooperate with his terms, the obsession turned into resentment.

Now, he doesn't even bother hiding the women. He comes home late at night, doesn't hide the alcohol dunked breath or the lipstick on his collars.

I shake my head, forcing my head to be in this moment. To stay in this precious moment with my daughter.

"Watch out, birthday girl! That's way too much on the spatula,"

I laugh, gently catching Milan’s tiny wrist before a massive blob of pink buttercream goes flying across the kitchen.

Milan giggles, her entire face brightening as she squishes her frosting-covered fingers together. "More, Mommy! Pretty cake!"

"It is pretty, sweet pea. You’re doing such a good job." I grab a damp napkin to wipe a streak of sugar off her cheek, but my throat suddenly feels tight, and I feel like I'd burst out crying.

Two years old. My little girl is two today.

Looking at her bright hazel eyes, the messy halo of curls around her face, her gummy smile... my heart swells with so much love it actually hurts.

I’d texted Saint hours ago, reminding him to come home early. I’d practically begged him. It’s Milan’s birthday. Please just be here.

He hadn’t even bothered to reply.

"Mommy sad?" Milan asks, tilting her head, her tiny brow furrowing as she reaches out a sticky hand toward my face.

I force a warm smile and kiss her palm. "No, baby. Mommy’s just so happy you’re two."

The front door makes a sound, a thud that tells me someone is home. I glance at Milan, noting the way her eyes lit up instantly.

"Daddy!" she squeals, dropping her spatula and lifting both of her little arms high into the air. "Daddy, look! Cake!"

Saint walks into the kitchen, his tie loosened, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, and a dark, irritated scowl on his face. He barely glances in our direction.

"Quiet down, Milan. I have a headache," he says, throwing his keys onto the counter with a loud clatter.

Milan’s arms slowly drop to her sides, her wide eyes looking up at me in confusion.

"Saint, talk to your daughter. She’s been waiting for you all day."

He ignores me, walking past us toward the fridge to grab a bottle of water.

I scoop Milan up into my arms, hugging her and smoothing down her dress. "It’s okay, baby," I whisper in her ear. "Daddy’s just really busy with work. Let’s let him catch his breath, okay?"

Saint unscrews his water cap, taking a long swig before turning his dark eyes onto me. "You said you were feeling nauseous."

I blink, thrown off by his sudden focus. Yeah, I did send him a text this morning about how I felt and I also did tell him about tonight. It's so fucking annoying how he choose to ignore his child's birthday and focus on how nauseous I said I was feeling.

"Was that all you got from the text I sent you this morning? I also said you needed to be home early for Milan’s second birthday. Did you even bring her a gift? Oh my God... did you even remember what today was?"

Saint’s gaze flicks down to Milan for a second. He reaches out, carelessly ruffling her hair, nearly knocking off the little birthday party hat she's wearing. "She’s fine, Melanie. She’s two. She doesn't even know what a birthday is."

"She knows when her dad isn't here!" I snap, holding Milan a little tighter. My eyes fall on a wrinkled white paper bag clutched in his left hand. "At least tell me you bought her something on your way home."

"Yeah. I got something," he says.

"Baby, look," I whisper to Milan, trying to keep my voice light for her sake. "Let's see what Daddy got you."

"Here. Take these," Saint mutters, tossing the paper bag onto the kitchen island right beside our half-frosted cake.

I walk over, setting Milan on her feet on the chair next to me so she won't fall, and reach into the bag. My fingers brush against hard, rectangular cardboard boxes. I pull them out, and the air leaves my lungs all at once.

Clearblue. First Response. Three different boxes of high-sensitivity pregnancy tests.

My stomach drops into a cold, dark pit. "Saint... no. No, no, no."

"What's the problem?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What are these for?" My voice is shaking now. "Why did you bring these home today?"

"You said you were nauseous," Saint says, taking a step closer. "Giving me another child would be the perfect birthday present for her. You’ve been throwing up for the past few days, haven't you?"

"That doesn't mean anything!" I say, throwing the boxes back onto the counter. "You know my body! I'm stressed, Saint! I've been running around trying to make today special for our daughter while you were God knows where with God knows who!"

"You don't know that for sure," he growls, closing the distance between us. "You could be pregnant."

"I am sure!" I say, my voice rising. "My monthly cycle literally just ended four days ago! It's physically impossible!"

"I don't give a damn about your excuses!" Saint suddenly roars, slamming his hand down on the marble island so hard the cake stand rattles. "You're going to take them!"

Milan flinches, bursting into sudden, terrified tears at the loud noise.

"Saint, stop!" I hiss, rushing to grab Milan as she sobs into my shoulder. "Calm down! Look at her, you're scaring her! We can talk about this later, just let me finish icing the cake with the baby first..."

"No," He barks, his face twisting into something ugly. He reaches out and snatches Milan out of my arms, shoving me backward toward the hallway. "I'll deal with the kid. Go take those fucking tests."

"Saint, please..."

"Go into that bathroom right now, Melanie," he snarls, pointing a rigid finger down the hall while Milan wails against his neck. "And you better come out with good news, or don't bother fucking leaving it."

Fuck

I lock the bathroom door, my hands are shaking so bad I can barely open the plastic wrapping. Outside, Milan’s muffled cries echo down the hallway, mixing with the impatient sound of Saint’s footsteps pacing back and forth on the hardwood.

"Melanie! Hurry the hell up!" he yells, slamming his fist once against the door. "I don't have all night for you to sit in there!"

"I'm doing it!" I mutter, wiping a stream of tears from my face with the back of my hand.

I take the tests. All three of them. I sit on the edge of the tub, staring at the little digital screens as the tiny loading hourglasses flickers. My heart beats so hard in my chest it feels like it's going to crack my ribs.

Part of me... some pathetic, broken part of me... prays for a miracle. Not because I want another baby with a man who treats me like garbage, but because I know a positive result is the only thing that will save me from his rage tonight.

Five minutes pass. One by one, the words appear.

NOT PREGNANT.

NOT PREGNANT.

NOT PREGNANT.

A terrible, hollow laugh escapes my lips before a sob cuts it off. Three cruel answers.

I barely have time to stand up before the bathroom door handle rattles.

"Well?" Saint demands from the other side. "What does it say?"

I take a deep breath, unlock the door, and step out into the hall. I don't say a word. I just hold out the three white plastic sticks in my palm.

Saint stares down at them. His face is blank for a second and then... just like I expected... he grabs the tests from my hand and shoves them directly into my face.

"You're useless," he spits. "You can't even do the one fucking thing a wife is supposed to do!"

"Saint, stop," I whisper, tears spilling over my lashes. "I told you my cycle just ended. I tried to tell you..."

"I don't care about your goddamn excuses!" he roars, throwing the tests against the wall. They shatter into plastic pieces, bouncing off the baseboard. "Look at you! You're defective, Melanie! You give me one girl, and now your body can't even manage a second? Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me?!"

"Embarrassing for you?" The pain in my chest suddenly flares into white-hot anger. "You walk into this house after ignoring your daughter all day, after sleeping with half the city, and you call me defective? I gave you a healthy, beautiful baby girl, Saint! But she isn't enough for you! I'm not enough for you!"

"You're damn right you're not enough!" he sneers, stepping right into my personal space, towering over me until I'm backed up against the hallway wall. "You think I want to go outside this marriage? You think I enjoy having to look elsewhere? I wouldn't have to if you were a real woman! You're a failure as a wife, and you're dragging me down with you."

Every word feels like a physical blow, a blade twisting deeper into my stomach. I can't breathe. The air in the house feels thick, suffocating, poisoned by years of his emotional abuse.

From the living room, Milan’s cries turn into high-pitched, panicked screams. She's terrified.

"Look at what you're doing to her!" I scream, pushing past him toward the living room. "It's her second birthday, Saint! You turned her birthday into a nightmare!"

"I turned it into a nightmare?" he shouts, following me down the hall, his voice booming through the quiet house. "You're the one who can't get pregnant! You're the one who's ruining this family! If you can't give me a son, then what the hell are you even good for?!"