Chapter 3: The Night I Stopped Begging

I waited for Adrian until midnight.

The hospital report sat on my bedside table, its folded edges nearly tearing from how many times I’d handled it. I’d practiced what to say all evening.

I'm sick.

I might die.

Adrian, I'm scared. Please stay with me.

When the bedroom door finally opened, I stood up too quickly. Adrian walked in, smelling faintly of Isabella’s perfume.

“You’re still awake?” he asked, loosening his tie.

“I was waiting for you.”

He glanced at the clock. “You didn’t have to.”

I swallowed. “Adrian, I really need to talk.”

“I’m exhausted, Clara. Can we do this tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow might be too late.”

His brows drew together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

For once, he seemed to notice something was wrong. I almost reached for his hand.

Then his phone rang.

Isabella.

He answered immediately. “What happened?”

Her voice trembled through the speaker. “Adrian, I don’t feel well. I’m scared something might happen to the baby.”

His whole expression changed.

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

He reached for his keys.

“Please don’t go.” My voice cracked, and I hated how desperate it sounded.

He turned, already irritated. “What now?”

“I went to the hospital. The doctor told me something serious.” I gripped the edge of the dresser. “Just listen to me for a minute.”

“Tell me tomorrow. Isabella is pregnant. If something happens to her or the baby, I won’t forgive myself.”

“And if something happens to me?”

He went still.

I waited for him to ask what I meant. I waited for him to put down his keys.

Instead, he frowned. “Don’t say things like that just to make me feel guilty.”

My hand slipped from the dresser.

“I’m not trying to”

“Clara, not everything is about you.”

Then he left.

I stood there long after the door shut, staring at the space he’d left behind. I’d wanted five minutes. He couldn’t even give me that.

The next morning, Margaret found me at the dining table, holding my medical report.

“Are you still going to sulk?” she asked. “Adrian told me you tried to stop him from helping Isabella last night.”

“I didn’t stop him.”

“Then stop acting like a neglected wife. Isabella is carrying a child who could secure this family’s future. What are you contributing?”

I looked at the paper in my hands.

“My doctor says I have six months left to live.”

The words came out barely above a whisper.

Margaret stared at me. For one hopeful second, I thought she might soften.

Then she gave a cold laugh.

“Is that supposed to make me feel sorry for you?”

My fingers went numb around the report.

“I’m not asking for pity. I just wanted”

“I don’t care if you’re sick or dying. Your health isn’t my responsibility, and you won’t use it to make Adrian feel guilty.”

I couldn’t find the words to answer her.

She stood and straightened her clothes. “If you think this will make my son choose you over Isabella, you’re wasting your time.”

After she left, I stayed at the table, staring at the report until the words blurred.

A little later, Sophie came downstairs. I quickly wiped my face.

“Sweetheart, can I ask you something?”

She nodded, already looking toward the living room.

“If Mommy had to go away for a while, would you miss me?”

“Would Aunt Isabella still visit?”

My chest tightened. “Probably, sweetheart.”

“Then I guess it would be okay.”

I stared at her, hoping she’d realize how much those words hurt. She only tugged at my sleeve.

“Mommy, can Aunt Isabella be my new mother someday? She’s prettier, and Daddy smiles more when she’s here. I wish you were more like her.”

For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe properly.

I remembered holding Sophie against my chest when she was a baby, walking the floor with her through sleepless nights, and sitting beside her bed whenever she was frightened.

She was only seven. She didn’t understand what those words meant to me.

Still, they hurt.

“Do you really want that?” I asked.

She nodded.

I gently let go of her hand. “All right, sweetheart.”

She ran off, distracted by something else before I could say another word.

That afternoon, I folded the report and put it in my bag. I was tired of begging people to listen, tired of pretending their words didn’t hurt.

When Adrian returned that evening, he found me by the window.

“Clara, about last night”

“Did you know I’m dying?”

His face went blank.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he asked.

A bitter laugh escaped me. “I tried.”

He looked away. His phone rang, and we both glanced at the screen.

I didn’t need to ask who was calling.

For once, I didn’t beg him to stay. I watched him reach for his keys, and something inside me finally settled.

I couldn’t make him love me. I couldn’t make Margaret care. And I couldn’t ask Sophie to understand a pain she was too young to see.

But I could stop putting myself through this.

If they were so comfortable imagining life without me, then I would leave.

This time, I wouldn’t wait for anyone to ask me to stay.