Like Love Faded In The Wind

Zeke Maelstorm stared at me in disbelief. After a long pause, he let out a laugh.

"Is this fun for you?" he said. "Is divorce your go-to threat for everything now?"

I lowered my eyes. "No. This time, I mean it."

At that, his smile twisted. He yanked off the wedding ring he'd worn for twenty years and slammed it down in front of me. The crash of metal on wood echoed through the room, as if everything we'd once shared—our years of mutual care and quiet companionship—had shattered with it.

I took a deep breath and slid my own ring off, setting it gently on the table. The gold band was still well-kept, polished like new.

When we married, we'd bought three gold pieces—earrings, a necklace, and the rings.

To fund his research, I pawned the earrings and the necklace long ago. Only the rings had survived, the last semblance of dignity in our marriage. And now, I was giving it back to him.

Zeke looked at me with a complicated expression. He must have thought I'd scream, cry, make a scene.

And once, I would've. But fifty-two nights in a cold, empty bed had already drained all hope from my heart.

"Carrie," he said, voice sharp, "don't be ridiculous. Zia's already compromised a lot. I know you don't really want a divorce. But I can't abandon Zia and the child just for you. Dylan is only six. You grew up in a single-parent home. Can you really bear to let him grow up without a father?"

I stared at him, stunned. After twenty years of sharing a bed, he suddenly felt like a stranger. Even my worst memories—things I could barely stand to revisit—had become bargaining chips in his negotiation.

My mother died giving birth to me. My father blamed me for her death. My childhood was a kind of hell, enough to make me fear marriage, fear having children.

It was Zeke who broke through that fear. He told me he didn't like children either, said we were made for each other.

Back then, not having kids was almost unthinkable. But he'd taken my hand and eloped with me, to a city where we knew no one, scraping by through the hardest years.

Of course, no matter how careful you are, accidents happen. We'd had a child once.

Somehow, word got out. His parents found us. They promised that if we kept the baby, they would raise it themselves, and give us a hundred grand to build the life we wanted.

I nearly gave in.

But that night, Zeke held my hand, and we talked until morning.

"You don't have to care what the world says," he told me. "Just do what feels right in your heart. I'll always stand by you."

"However," I'd asked softly, "medical technology's better now. Even with complications, they can save both mother and child. Are you sure… you really don't want one?"

I remember how he nodded, then drove me to the hospital for the abortion.