And then came the worst part. The stress. The nausea that never left. The grief pressed down on my chest every night. Three weeks after Oliver dropped that bomb, I started bleeding.
It was too late.
I lost Emma in a cold, white hospital room, with no one by my side.
Oliver never showed. Not even a call. Judy texted me once: “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
That was it. That was all my sister had to say.
A few months later, they decided to get married, with a baby on the way. My parents paid for the wedding, a fancy 200-guest affair at the nicest place in town. They said, “The child needs a father,” and “It’s time to move on.”
They sent me an invitation. Like I was a coworker or a distant cousin. I remember holding it in my hands, my name printed in that fake gold cursive.
I didn’t go. I couldn’t go.
I stayed home while my ex-husband married my sister. But when my other sister exposed him mid-toast and drenched them in red paint, I knew I had to see it for myself.
Hi, my name’s Lucy. I’m 32, and up until about a year ago, I thought I had the kind of life most people dream of. A steady job, a cozy house, and a husband who kissed my forehead before work and left little notes in my lunchbox.
I worked as a billing coordinator for a dental group just outside of Milwaukee. It wasn’t glamorous, but I enjoyed it. I liked my routine and my lunch-hour walks. I liked the feel of warm socks out of the dryer, and the way Oliver, my husband, used to say, “Hi, beautiful,” even when I was still wearing zit cream.
