Part 3 — The Letter He Wrote When I Lost Our Baby

Claire wore white for the third recording session.

Her hair had been washed and styled. Someone had placed pale pink flowers near the window, and the sharp hospital smell had been softened by expensive perfume.

“Adrian likes me in white,” she said.

I locked the microphone into place.

“I’m here to record your message, not his preferences.”

Her smile faltered, then returned.

“You’re right. Of course.”

The message was about the first day they met.

Claire described chasing Adrian across campus with a club registration form until he finally stopped and told her she was unbearable.

“You said I was the most irritating woman you had ever met,” she whispered into the microphone. “But you smiled when you said it.”

I watched the waveform rise and fall.

Adrian’s memories filled the room.

None of them belonged to me.

That evening, we were expected at Margaret Vale’s house for dinner.

I considered refusing, but I wanted to see whether Adrian would acknowledge what was happening when Claire’s name entered a room where I was his wife.

Margaret’s home overlooked Lake Washington. The dining table was set for six, though only the three of us were present.

Halfway through dinner, she placed a piece of salmon on Adrian’s plate.

“Claire is back in Seattle.”

Adrian’s eyes shifted briefly toward me.

“I know.”

Margaret sighed.

“That poor girl. If she hadn’t gone overseas for treatment all those years ago, the two of you might have—”

She stopped.

Then she turned to me with an elegant smile.

“Forgive me, Maya. Ancient history.”

“Is it?”

Adrian set down his glass.

“Maya.”

Margaret’s smile thinned.

“She was part of his life long before you. That doesn’t diminish your position.”

My position.

Not my marriage.

Adrian’s phone vibrated.

He looked at the screen and stood.

“I need to take this.”

The French doors closed behind him.

Margaret waited until he had crossed the terrace.

“You have always been a sensible woman,” she said.

“I’m beginning to hate that word.”

Her eyes cooled.

“Adrian married you when your family needed help. Evelyn received treatment most people could never access. Your company survived because he intervened.”

“I know what the arrangement was.”

“Then you know gratitude is appropriate.”

I folded my napkin beside my plate.

“What exactly are you asking me to be grateful for tonight?”

“Claire is very ill. If she needs Adrian during whatever time she has left, don’t make this difficult.”

“You’re asking his wife not to compete with his former girlfriend.”

“I’m asking you to behave with compassion.”

“And if compassion destroys my marriage?”

Margaret’s expression remained calm.

“Your marriage was never built on romance.”

The French doors opened.

Adrian returned to the table.

He looked from his mother to me.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Margaret said.

I rose.

“I’m ready to leave.”

In the car, Adrian drove in silence until we reached the bridge.

“What did she say to you?”

“That Claire needs you and I should stay out of the way.”

The car slowed.

“She said that?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’ll speak to her.”

“There’s no need.”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“She had no right to involve herself.”

“She said out loud what you’ve already shown me.”

“That isn’t fair.”

I turned toward him.

“A man who belongs to me would not require a competition.”

He pulled to the curb.

“Maya, what does that mean?”

“It means I’m done fighting for someone who was never mine.”

His face became unreadable.

When we reached home, he stayed in the car.

In the past, I would have waited inside the foyer. I would have made tea, listened for the door, and prepared an apology for whatever part of the evening he blamed on me.

Instead, I went upstairs and opened the closet.

My clothes occupied less than a third of the space.

I pulled out a suitcase.

Behind a row of Adrian’s winter coats, I found a cedar box I had never seen before.

Inside were letters.

Every envelope bore Claire’s name. None had been mailed.

The first was dated eight years earlier.

Claire, since you left, every room feels unfinished.

The second was dated the day Adrian and I married.

I married today. Her name is Maya Bennett. She is quiet, intelligent, and suitable for the life I need to build.

Suitable.

My vision blurred.

I went through the dates until one stopped me.

October 17.

The day I lost our baby.

I had been eight weeks pregnant.

I had planned to tell Adrian over dinner, but I fell on the studio stairs that afternoon. At the hospital, I called him five times.

He arrived after midnight.

By then, there was no heartbeat.

He stood beside my bed and said, “We can try again.”

I had mistaken his restraint for grief.

I opened the letter.

Claire,

Maya lost a pregnancy today. I know I should feel devastated, but what I feel most is guilt because I’m not hurting the way a husband should.

It was your birthday.

I went to the restaurant near campus and sat at our old table. I don’t know why. Maybe I needed to remember the version of myself that could still feel something without being told I should.

The paper trembled between my fingers.

That night, I had defended him to the child I had lost.

Your father isn’t heartless, I had whispered into the empty hospital room. He just doesn’t know how to show love.

I returned the letters to the box.

Then I photographed only the documents relevant to our marriage arrangement and financial obligations. The personal letters would not help my divorce, and I would not become the kind of person who turned someone’s private grief into public ammunition.

When Adrian entered the bedroom, my suitcase was half full.

He stopped in the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“We need to talk.”

“We do.”

He came farther into the room.

“I spoke to my mother.”

“That changes nothing.”

“I also told Claire the recordings should stop.”

“Claire is the client. That is her decision.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You seem determined to make this worse.”

I closed the suitcase.

“Do you still love her?”

He said nothing.

I waited.

The silence answered for him.

I opened my laptop and turned it toward him.

The divorce petition Rachel had prepared filled the screen.

“Our agreement has reached the end we discussed three years ago. I’m filing.”

His face hardened.

“You’re threatening me with divorce because I visited a dying woman?”

“You think divorce is a threat because you cannot imagine me choosing it for myself.”

“Maya.”

“I am not asking you to chase me. I’m not asking you to pick me.”

I placed the unsigned acknowledgment form on the dresser.

“I’m notifying you that I’m leaving.”

“I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have to agree for me to file.”

His phone rang.

Claire’s name appeared on the screen.

He rejected the call.

It rang again.

And again.

I picked it up and answered.

“Adrian,” Claire whispered. “It hurts. I can’t breathe.”

The blood drained from his face.

He took the phone from me.

“I’m coming.”

He reached for his coat.

At the bedroom door, he looked back.

“We’ll discuss the divorce when I return.”

I watched him leave.

Then I closed my suitcase.

I packed the marriage certificate, my mother’s medical records, and every item I had brought into this house.

Before dawn, I placed my wedding ring on the dining table.

Beside it, I left the divorce papers.

When Adrian returned, there would be nothing left to discuss.