Without Him

On the day I was three months pregnant, I deliberately wore a loose, off-white dress, clutching the prenatal checkup checklist I had prepared in advance. Standing at the entrance of the hospital's obstetrics and gynecology department, I took a deep breath and gently touched my lower abdomen with my fingertips, my heart full of hope. When my number was called, Calvin Lincoln sent me a message: "Anna, the experiment has reached a critical stage. Let me know you're safe after your prenatal checkup." I replied with "Okay," tucked my phone into my bag, and followed the nurse into the consultation room. The doctor moved the ultrasound probe over my lower abdomen; the image on the screen was blurry, and I gripped the bedsheet tightly with nerves. "The fetus has no heartbeat," her voice was soft, yet like an ice pick piercing my heart. "It has stopped developing and requires an immediate abortion procedure." Tears sprang to my eyes. With trembling hands, I dialed Calvin Lincoln's number, my throat tight: "Calvin, the baby is gone. The doctor wants me to have surgery. Can you come be with me?" After a few seconds of silence, his hesitant voice came through: "Anna, I haven't finished organizing the experimental data yet. My advisor and senior school mate haven't left. I really can't go." I bit my lip, swallowing the hurt, said only "I understand," and hung up. Lying alone on the operating table, the sharp smell of disinfectant stung my eyes, making them water. The moment the anesthetic took effect, Calvin's voice saying "I can't leave" echoed in my mind, leaving my heart hollow. After the surgery, back at home, I collapsed onto the sofa scrolling through my social feed when Maggie Scott's post suddenly appeared—the man in the driver's seat was unmistakably Calvin Lincoln, with the caption, "Caught in heavy rain on a business trip, thankfully someone drove for hours to pick me up; grateful to have you," posted that very afternoon I was undergoing surgery. It wasn't that he was too busy to come, he simply didn't have time for me. I clutched my pillow and cried all through the night. Near dawn, I called the lawyer: "Please draft a divorce agreement for me, as soon as possible." After hanging up, I went to the study to get the household registration booklet. When I pulled it out, I accidentally knocked over Calvin Lincoln's folder. A photograph slipped out—it showed him and Maggie Scott beneath the university gingko tree, and on the back, handwritten in pen, was: "All my youthful fantasies." Those neglected details suddenly replayed like a film in my mind. Last summer, during a heavy rain, I went to pick up Calvin Lincoln and saw him holding an umbrella over Maggie Scott, shielding her beneath it, while his own shoulder was soaked. He said, "I'm just giving my senior school mate a ride along the way." In the car, Maggie asked me how to make pork chop buns, and Calvin explained, "My senior school mate's family member is hospitalized, so I gave her my packed lunch." Later, when Maggie's rented apartment leaked, Calvin let her stay at our place without consulting me. I cooked meals for three every day, brewed hand-drip coffee, even lent them the car, while I squeezed onto the subway to get to work in winter... I used to comfort myself that he was loyal and dependable, but now I understand that it was love hidden deep in his heart. I wiped away the cold tears; the divorce perfectly fulfilled his wishes—consider it my final gift. On the seventh day after the miscarriage surgery, Calvin Lincoln finally came home. In these seven days, he sent only two messages asking, "How is your body?" and saying, "The experiment requires monitoring data, so I'm not coming home." When he pushed open the door, his face was weary. He took off his coat and sat on the sofa, rubbing his stomach: "Anna, make me a bowl of noodles; my stomach hurts." I lifted my head from the computer screen, feeling no trace of sympathy, only aversion—Calvin's irregular eating habits and stomach pains had started back when we were dating. For his sake, I even earned a nutritionist certificate. Whenever he was in pain before, I would quickly cook millet porridge to soothe his stomach, but now I only felt exhausted: "I'm busy working. There are dried noodles in the kitchen; cook them yourself." After speaking, I hugged my laptop and returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I don't know how much time passed before the bedroom door was pushed open, and Calvin Lincoln wrapped his arms around me from behind, his hand resting gently on my lower abdomen. "Anna, it was wrong of me not to be with you during the surgery, but the experimental data wasn't fully analyzed yet. Everyone else hadn't left, so I couldn't just leave alone, could I? Once this project is finished, I'll take you to travel and properly make it up to you. Okay?" I was so furious I laughed bitterly, and then the phone in his pocket suddenly rang. The warmth behind me vanished instantly. He glanced at the screen, answered without hesitation, his tone softening immediately: "Senior school mate, what's wrong? Don't worry, I'm coming to you right now." I stopped him, pointing to the car keys by the entrance. "I don't care what you're going to do, but the car stays here. I need it tomorrow to go to the hospital and pick up my medication." "Don't be like that, Anna," he pushed me aside, his eyes heavy with reproach. "My senior school mate has a high fever. I have to take her to the hospital." With that, he grabbed the car keys and left without looking back.