Chapter 3

Elizabeth's POV

After Nathan left, I began packing.

Eight years ago, when I married Nathan and left home for Westmere, I brought three suitcases with me. Eight years later, despite living in a 2,000-square-foot house, I still didn't own enough to fill those three suitcases.

I folded my clothes neatly. At the very bottom of the wardrobe lay my wedding album with Nathan. In the photos, he lifted my veil and whispered something in my ear. He had said, "From now on, this is your home."

Back then, I had truly believed him. I quit my job back home, left my parents, and followed him to a city where I couldn't even understand what others were saying.

When his friends gathered and spoke in Westmerean, I could only smile because I didn't understand a word they said. When his parents complained that my taste was too bland, I learned to cook local dishes.

Even when Mom fell ill, all I did was ask for three days off work because Nathan said the round-trip tickets were expensive and that seeing her on a video call would be just the same as visiting her in person.

I left the album where it was.

That afternoon, Sonia posted a couple of photos on her social media. The first photo was of tents on a grassy field. The second showed Nathan standing at the grill, his head lowered as he tied an apron around her.

The third was the two of them holding up the wings I had marinated, posing together. The caption read, "Same taste, same friends."

In the comments, someone asked who prepared the wings, to which Sonia replied, "Our secret chef."

There was no mention of me. The food I made was welcomed by his friends, but I, as a person, didn't deserve to be there.

Minutes later, Nathan sent me a message with a photo of an empty takeout box attached. "The takeout I had for lunch tasted horrible! I miss your food, Liz!"

I took a screenshot of Sonia's social media post, but quickly deleted it again. I didn't need any evidence anymore.

…

That evening, Mom video-called me. It was raining on her end, and the eaves dripped steadily. "Lizzie, why do you look so pale?"

I moved the camera a little farther away from myself. "I've been on a diet lately."

"Don't go on any ridiculous diets, Lizzie."

A long stretch of silence followed as she hesitated. Then she asked gingerly, "Will you be coming home for Christmas this year?"

In the eight years since I'd moved to Westmere, I had only gone back for Christmas twice. Every time, Nathan would say he had to work, couldn't get tickets, or that his parents would be upset if I didn't show up for Christmas celebrations.

Not wanting Mom to worry about us, I always made excuses and covered for Nathan.

But this time, I said, "Yes."

Mom froze. "Really?"

"Yes, really. And I might not be leaving again after that."

She stared at the screen for a long time, as if afraid to ask why. In the end, she only said, "It's good that you're coming home."

After ending the video call, I went to the hospital.

The doctor looked at the examination results and asked me again, "Are you sure you want to terminate the pregnancy?"

I nodded. "I'm sure."

"Does your family know?"

"No."

The doctor frowned. "You'd better discuss it with the father."

I touched my still-flat abdomen.

If I gave birth to this child, he would sit at the dinner table unable to understand his grandparents. He would be corrected for his accent. And he would watch his father spend a lot of time having fun with his friends while leaving his mother at home.

Perhaps one day, he, too, would think that his mother was the one who didn't fit in and the one who was too sensitive. I didn't want to take that gamble.

"No, there's nothing to be discussed," I said resolutely, signing my name on the papers.

The procedure was scheduled for Sunday morning. Before I left the hospital, the nurse handed me a list of precautions and reminded me that I needed someone to pick me up after the procedure.

I thought about it for a long time before finally sending a message to my neighbor, Kendra Hopkins.

She was quick to reply. "I'll be there with you."

It was ironic that a neighbor I had only known for half a year knew that I shouldn't be alone at a time like this, yet my husband was miles away, eating the food I made and celebrating finally not having me there.

When I came out of the hospital, Nathan called. Laughter filled the background.

He covered the receiver and asked, "Liz, are you asleep yet?"

"No."

"I might not make it back tonight. The rain's too heavy. It'd be dangerous to drive."

"Okay."

"You're not mad, are you?"

I looked down at the abortion paperwork in my hand. "No."

He let out a breath of relief. "I always knew that you were understanding."

Just before the call ended, I heard Sonia call out to him, "Nate, come quick! We're taking a picture! You're the only one who's not in it!"

This time, I made no excuses for him again.