My Fiancé, Her Baby Daddy

"Honey, the mushroom soup was a little bland today, but I still finished the whole thing."

Derrick Holmes' voice came through the phone as I sat in the back of a cab heading home, the thin sheet of paper confirming my pregnancy still clenched in my hand.

"Really?" I said quietly. "I guess I went a little easy on the salt."

"That's probably for the best. The doctor wants me to eat pretty bland food for now, anyway."

He paused, then sighed. "They're ridiculously strict at this recovery center. There's no TV, nothing to do. I spend half the day walking around and the other half bored out of my mind. Still, if putting up with this means we'll have healthy kids someday, I can deal with it."

I looked down at the blue dot marking his location on my phone.

It was still sitting directly over Luna Confinement Centre, barely ten minutes from where I was.

"How much longer are you supposed to stay there?" I asked.

"Seven more days," Derrick replied without hesitation. "Then I'm finally done, and I'll make it back in time for the wedding rehearsal. I know I've dumped most of the wedding planning on you lately. Once I'm home, I'll make it up to you."

He sounded completely sincere.

If I hadn't seen him holding that child with my own eyes earlier, I probably would've been moved to tears.

"Okay," I said. "I'll wait for you."

After we hung up, the driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror.

"Where to?"

"Home."

I gave him the address.

When I opened the front door, boxes were stacked all over the living room. Wedding decorations covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, while unfinished invitations lay scattered across the coffee table.

Derrick and I had shared this home for six years.

He had picked out the throw pillows on the couch, while I'd chosen the artwork on the walls. Even the rug by the front door was new, replaced specifically because we'd wanted the apartment to feel festive for the wedding.

I walked over to the coffee table and picked up one of the invitations.

Printed across the front were our names, Derrick Holmes and Tiffany Young, with a wish for a happy marriage.

When I opened it, Derrick's handwriting filled the inside, every line carefully written.

He'd insisted on addressing the invitations himself because, according to him, marriage was a lifelong commitment and something that important deserved a personal touch.

I set the invitation down and took the baby shoes I'd bought earlier from my bag.

They were tiny and soft, pale yellow with little ducklings printed on them.

I'd planned to hide them under Derrick's pillow so he would find them when he came home.

But now, it seemed pointless.

I went into the bedroom, opened the closet, and pulled out a suitcase. I only packed a few things I wore regularly.

Derrick's clothes still hung neatly on the other side, his shirts arranged by color exactly the way I'd organized them.

Once I finished packing, I sat on the edge of the bed and opened Central Hospital's appointment portal on my phone.

My procedure was scheduled for 3:00 pm the following afternoon in the OB-GYN department.

It was for an abortion.

The words on the screen were cold and clinical, much like how I felt in the moment.

I didn't cry as I looked at the screen. By then, I was simply too exhausted.

Six years together had been reduced to 30 days of lies.

Derrick had come up with the perfect excuse to disappear and leave me buried in all the wedding preparations, while he spent that time taking care of another woman and her child.

Just then, my phone buzzed with another message from him.

"Honey, get some rest tonight. Don't bring me soup tomorrow. I hate making you come all this way."

I stared at the message for a long time before replying, "Okay."

Then, I set my phone aside and turned off the bedroom light.

The moment I closed my eyes, I saw Derrick holding that child again, wearing the same gentle smile he'd once shown me.

Only now, someone else was on the receiving end.