"I can't stand the thought of a young girl suffering because of me. Just wait a little longer. Next year, we'll register. I promise."
Looking at their fingers laced together, I couldn't stop my eyes from burning.
I'd been pregnant once, too.
I was barely in my twenties when I held up the ultrasound for him, beaming, certain he would do something romantic, maybe even propose.
He took the ultrasound, glanced at it, and said with a face as cold as slate:
"Get rid of it."
"People like us, living on a knife's edge, aren't meant to have kids."
My whole body went rigid. I could barely get the words out. "But the doctor said my health isn't great. If I lose this one, I might not be able to conceive again..."
"Then we won't have kids. Ever."
In my memory, Kenneth's profile was sharp and indifferent, his eyes locked on the game on his screen.
Back then, he said the timing wasn't right. Said it wasn't suitable. Said he didn't like children.
The one thing he never said was that he felt sorry for me.
But now, with that delicate woman tucked against his chest, his eyes were brimming with tenderness he couldn't contain.
Maybe the contrast was too stark. The tears I'd been holding back finally slipped free.