A Final Wish for Us

Today is the third anniversary of my marriage to Marcel Salazar. He left early this morning, saying he was preparing a surprise for me. When I came home in the evening, the living room was indeed illuminated by flickering candlelight. On the dining table were exquisite steaks and red wine, along with my favorite strawberry cake. Marcel Salazar wore a tidy shirt, his face soft with a gentle smile as he pulled me to sit down. "Jenny, happy anniversary." He handed me a glass of red wine, his eyes filled with anticipation. My heart warmed; despite occasional friction over these three years of marriage, it always felt worthwhile. We ate and talked, reminiscing about the playful moments from our relationship. Halfway through the meal, a sudden, intense pain shot through my stomach. At first, I thought it was from eating the cold strawberry cake, so I didn't think much of it. But the pain grew stronger, and a cold sweat broke out suddenly on my forehead. Clutching my stomach, I bent over, barely able to speak. Marcel panicked, quickly supporting me and asking what was wrong. I forced myself to endure it and told him to check on the rest of the food. After checking, he found some white powder in the steak sauce. It was only later that I realized it was a laxative. Furious and anxious, I demanded Marcel Salazar explain what was going on. He hesitated for a long time before finally admitting that Naomi Sullivan was behind it. Naomi Sullivan was his childhood friend, someone he'd grown up with, always acting like a "little sister" beside him. I had long been uneasy about her, but Marcel insisted I was imagining things and that he only felt sibling affection for Naomi. This time, on our wedding anniversary, she actually put laxatives in my food. I held the small bottle of laxative and rushed up to Marcel Salazar to confront him. "You know I'm pregnant, so how could you let her do this?" My voice trembled with anger. I was only two months pregnant and had been extremely careful, afraid of anything going wrong. Marcel avoided my gaze and whispered, "Naomi was just playing a prank, trying to make you remember this anniversary. She didn't mean any harm." "Playing a prank?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "She's trying to harm my child!" I pointed to the door and told him to go find Naomi Sullivan right now and get the truth—either she apologizes, or he severs ties with her. I made him choose between me and Naomi. But Marcel frowned, his tone sharp with accusation: "Jenny, can you be a little more reasonable?" "Naomi has been in poor health since childhood. I owe her a lot and can't treat her like this." "Owe her?" I sneered coldly, the pain in my belly blending with the hurt in my heart, almost making me lose my footing. "What about me and the baby? Are we nothing to you?" He didn't answer, just silently turned away, staring out the window. No matter what I said, he didn't respond anymore.