"I know I can't make you do anything. I know that. That's why I'm asking." Early hints of desperation started settling at the shores of his speech. She smiled. Oh, Jessie. Always so calm, always so charming, always so kind.
"Who told you that asking meant the answer would be yes?" She saw another light dim in his eyes as he edged further forward yet on his seat. Any closer and he'd fall flat on his backside. She wondered if she could make that happen.
"What can I do to convince you? That child is mine too, you know?" Broken glass lined the broken home. His clasped hands rested on his knees, his gaze resting on the carpet of shards at his feet.
"It's my body. You're not the one carrying the child, you won't be the one delivering the child and you certainly wouldn't be the one raising it."
A step. He jumped up. "I told you, I'll raise the child, all I want is the child. You don't have to have anything to do wtih her. I want to raise her. Why do you not want to understand that?"
Understand? Understand? She's the one who didn't understand? "I understand, all right. You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know that you want me to deliver this baby, just for you to leave me all alone with it? That you want to see just how much you can ruin my life?" Pain bit at her words.
"Jen- please. It's been how long, now? 3 months? Didn't we agree to carry out the pregnancy? Don't you remember when you found out? That smile you had. I've never seen you smile like that."
Anger started swelling in her chest. "And don't you remember? That was before I found out about your stupid cheating with your stupid friend." Pain was chewing at her words now, making it hard to speak. She stopped herself. Calm down. He wasn't going to take her dignity too. "You should have thought things through before you went and broke my trust." A lengthy pause inserted itself between her words. "I'm having the abortion." Another step.
Broken trust, that's exactly what this was. He fell back down onto seat, placing his head in his hand. Three years ago. Three. Didn't time heal all wounds? Wasn't that the proverb? Maybe the proverb was wrong. Maybe the proverb, along with all the relentless repetition from all races, creeds and colours over centuries over human history was wrong. All the adherents wasting their tongue motions on uttering such deceptive words. But there was no cult of the time-heals-all-wounds-proverb. The wound had simply never been opened. In fact, all that time it should have been healing, it was instead slowly opening up into the gaping, pink and fleshly ravine he was cascading into today. It's true, he should have told her when it happened. He should have related his misplaced moment of passion with his mistress to his wife as soon as it had happened, like a murderer standing over the body with an operator to his ear. He should have declared the solemn words 'I did it." But he didn't. Maybe it's because his wife was smart- sharper than any words she could send your way. A sharpness that had him thinking she would immediately find out. A sharpness that, when failing to sever through the secrets of an unloyal husband, would lead to a passage of time. Time in which a wound wouldn't heal because the wound had not yet been formed. Eventually, as his wife failed to figure out what he had done, the onslaught of days passing made it progressively harder to confess. 'Welcome back honey, I cheated on yourtwo years ago!' Be serious. But the reasonings of his mind were funny to him; how the blame could be shifted so easily. She was the victim in this, atleast in the cheating affairs. Yet, his mind had found a way to twist the facts, to falsify and fictionate reality. His face muscles curled into a slight smile, utterly devoid of the usual connotations behind it. But at what point did it become too late to tell he-
"What the hell are you smiling for?" An icy glare bridged the space between them, rending asunder the thick atmosphere of the living room. His face dropped slack.
"Sorry." He said. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I-"
"You were going to tell me eventually? What, once I was too old to do anything about it? Once you formally decided to leave me? Once I had delivered the child?" Yet another step.
He had done a bad thing to her in cheating. This he knew, understood and utterly accepted. There were consequences to actions, this he knew. But why the baby? Wasn't all this hatred and hurt just falling onto the head of an unborn child? Wasn't this murder in spite? He had no right over the child as a father. A court of law would avail him nothing. To abort or not to abort, that power was entirely in her hands. So he sat there, powerless. Ah, Jen. Beautiful, sharp, resentful. The type of person you didn't win against. But he wasn't in some sort of friendly debate. He had to convince her, one way or another. He had to. For his unborn daughter; a life unlived. He had to.
"I know what I did to you. And I'm sorry. I'm also sorry for never telling you. I truly am, I'm sorry. Back then, I gave into my weakness. That's what it was. I didn't hate you Jen, or not love anyone more. I had my moment of weakness. I'm sorry. But, I am not my past. My past may influence me, yes, it may give insight to who I am fundamentally, yes, but my past is not who I am today. Why should the child suffer for my actions? If any-"
"And it's 4 months."
He lifted his head from his hand. "What?"
"I've been pregnant for 4 months, not 3."
Ah. Maybe that was the killing blow. With each sentence from his mouth, and with each syllable from hers, he could see the hope of life for his daughter fade. With each word from her lips, that girl would take another step forward, teetering over the horizon, and eventually fall.
She stood up, grabbing her purse and walking past him as he motionlessly watched. He saw something glint in her eyes as she moved. Tears? No. It was surely nothing more than her glasses.
"I've already returned the house and car keys. Samantha will come pick up the rest of my stuff on Sunday." She stood at the door of the room, one foot in the corridor. "We will never meet again."
Yes. That child was falling. Cascading over death's horizon. Plummeting, even, into that cold sunset. Tears welled up in his core, springing out to his eyes. The front door opened. Her voice rang out through the corridor, into the room.
"I'm keeping the child. But you won't have anything to do with her life. Have a happy existence."
The door shut.
He sat in utter silence. The constant hum of the kitchen seemed to hold its song. He sat alone. He broke into tears, bringing his hands to his face. Perhaps attempting to catch them. He would need more hands. The nature of the tears were unknown to him. Relief, joy, grief, sadness? Maybe all. He didn't know. But there were consequences to actions. This he knew, this he understood, this he utterly accepted. So he sat alone in the room, and cried.
