When My Adoptive Sister Came Back

Chapter 3 — After the Loss

I wake to the beep of the monitor and a thin blanket over my legs. A hospital room. The smell is sharp and clean. My mouth is dry. My belly aches in a deep, low way that does not stop. I know what it means, but my mind walks around it like a hole in the ground.

A doctor steps in. She says her name and checks the screen. I do not want the small talk. I ask the only question that matters.

“How is the baby?"

She meets my eyes. “I'm sorry."

The words land. There is no echo. I stare at the blanket. My hand slides to my stomach out of habit. There is nothing there to answer me back. The ache is real. The absence is more real.

The doctor says more things. Blood loss. Rest. No visitors unless I ask for them. I nod because she wants me to nod. She leaves a bell by my hand. She says to press it if I feel dizzy. She says she will be close.

When the door shuts, the room gets quiet in a new way. I can hear my own breath and the slow drip of the IV. I let the truth stand in the room with me. I have lost the baby.

I do not dress it up. I do not search for a bright side. I say it in plain words because plain words do not lie. I have lost the baby.

I think of the last three years with Jacob. I think of how he kept me at a distance even when we stood side by side. He called it duty. He called it timing. He called it tradition. But what it felt like was a wall. I learned to move around that wall. I learned how to smile for the pack, to listen, to fix small problems, to say the right words so the elders would nod. But at night the house was cold. My bed was neat. My hopes had to whisper.

I wanted a child. I wanted someone who belonged to me without debate. I wanted a small voice in the morning and a warm weight in my arms at night. I wanted a reason to keep going when the days were flat and careful. I prayed for it in quiet ways. I did not tell anyone when I saw the faint lines on the test. I pressed my hand to my belly and promised to protect that small life while it was still a secret. I planned to tell Jacob when I had the right words and the right moment, when the news could not be ignored and would not be turned into another rule.

I did not get the chance. The rogues took that chance in a dirty alley. They grabbed me because they wanted to hurt him. They let go when I said I was pregnant, but the damage was already done. My body and the concrete and the rain made a decision without me. Then I called my husband. He was with her. He hung up.

The memory stings in a simple way. He was busy. He had Camila beside him. I had blood on my hands. He chose her voice over mine. He did not know about the baby, but he knew I was his wife. He knew I was asking for help. He still hung up.

The drip keeps its pace. The room is steady. I am not steady. Grief moves through me in waves that do not match the monitor. First a heavy sadness that flattens me. Then anger that warms my face and makes my fingers curl. Then regret so sharp I feel it in my teeth. I want to go back to before the alley. I want to walk the long way home. I want to have told someone to meet me. I want to have told Jacob the news the second I knew it. I want a thousand small choices back. None of them will come back.

I think of Camila and try to keep my mind calm. She poured poison into a cup for me once and still everyone called her gentle. Jacob called her a friend. My mother, Grace, called her “a good girl at heart." They wanted peace at the table. I drank water from my own glass. I said nothing. I swallowed my fear and my pride until both were hard to tell apart. I tell myself a new sentence now: I will not swallow this.

The doctor brings broth and a soft warning. “Small sips," she says. I obey. The warmth is kind, but food feels strange in a body that has just let go of so much. She asks if I want her to limit visitors. “Yes," I say. “Please." She nods and writes the note. She asks if I want to call someone. I shake my head. I am not ready to hear anyone else's ideas about what hurts.

When she leaves again, the room goes still. I let the last three years play in my head, not as a story with a moral, but as a list I can read straight through.

— Jacob married me because the elders said it would tie two packs in a neat bow.

— He made space for me in public and less space in private.

— He kept Camila close with phone calls and errands and soft words.

— My parents tried to love us both and ended up defending the one who cried louder.

— I did my work. I kept the house and the peace and the ledger and my voice low.

— I waited for love to arrive like a late train. It did not arrive.

I stop at the fact that matters most. I have lost the baby. The sentence does not change when I say it again. It does not soften when I say it a third time. I feel it as a weight that will be with me when I sit up, when I stand, when I walk out of this place, and when I come home to a bed that still knows my shape.

My phone vibrates. The sound is small but rude in the quiet. I pick it up because I am tired of being afraid of small sounds. Jacob's name is on the screen. I do not want to hear his voice, but I answer, because I am done hiding from what is true.

“Yes," I say. My voice is rough. It fits the day.

“You're awake," he says. No greeting. His tone is firm, like he is chairing a meeting. “Camila is back. My parents will host a welcome tonight. You will attend."

I look at the clear bag of saline and the slow drip. I think of the doctor's steady hands and the stain the nurses cleaned from the floor. I think of my empty body. I think of the alley. I think of the sound of Camila's voice through his phone while mine shook in my hand. I keep my own voice level.

“I am in the hospital," I say.

“I'm aware," he answers. “You were checked. Lyle told me you're stable. You will be discharged in time."

I wait for the question he has not asked. It does not come. “Do you want to know why I'm here?" I ask.

“Lyle said there was bleeding," he says. “It happens. Don't escalate it. This event matters. You need to show the pack you are above petty issues."

My hand tightens around the phone. I press it to my ear so I can hear myself choose each word. “I lost the baby," I say, and the syllables feel like steps on a hard road. “Our baby."

Silence opens on the line. I can hear him breathe. I can hear a page turn. I can hear the click of a pen in his hand. I cannot hear sorrow move toward me.

“I didn't know," he says at last. His voice is flatter than I expect. “You should have told me sooner."

“I called you from the alley," I say. “I told you I was bleeding. You hung up."

“That is not fair," he says. “I was at the airport. I was arranging security. She was not well. Timing was bad." He lowers his voice, like someone might overhear. “You can't make scenes when we have people watching."

My anger steadies instead of rising. It goes cool and simple. I see the line that runs through all of this. I do not need to explain it to him again. I do not need him to agree for it to be true.

“You said I will attend," I say. “Here is my answer." I keep my tone even. I speak as if I am naming the weather. “No."

He inhales, sharp. “Olivia—"

“No," I say again. “I will not go to a party for Camila. I will not get dressed so strangers can judge the set of my mouth. I will not sit while people praise her return and ask me to pass the bread. I will not let them use my chair to make your house look whole. Not tonight. Not like this. No."

“You are Luna," he says, like it is a fact that solves facts. “Appearances matter. You cannot refuse."

“I can," I say. “I just did."

He starts to argue. I do not want his reasons. I do not want his tone. I do not want to spend one more breath making a case for my own pain to a man who will not hold it with me.

“I am hanging up now," I say. “Do not call me about the welcome again."

He says my name in the tone he uses when he wants a different ending. I do not give him one. I press the red button. The call ends. The phone is a quiet, dark weight in my hand.

For a long moment I stare at the blank screen. The room is the same. The drip still moves. The monitor still keeps time. But a small space opens inside me where his demands do not reach. It is not joy. It is not relief. It is a clear spot on a foggy window. I can see through it, just a little.

I set the phone face down on the tray and push it away. My hand shakes. I do not care if it shakes. I let my body be as weak as it is. I pull the blanket up and tuck it under my palm the way Grace used to do for me when I was a girl and afraid of the dark. I am not less brave because I do this. I am not smaller.

I close my eyes. I say the plain sentences again, like beads in a string I will carry with me for a while. I have lost the baby. Jacob did not come. He asked me to smile for Camila. I said no. I said no. I said no.

The monitor keeps its even beat. Night slides in against the window. Somewhere in the hall a cart wheel squeaks at the same place it always does. I breathe in and out. It hurts. I do it anyway.