I pull my dress up to expose my thigh. My hand is shaking so hard I almost drop the knife.
“Come on, Willow. You can do this,” I mutter. “You have to do this… for your child.”
As hard as I can, I s***h the knife across my skin.
I make the cut high up on my thigh, high enough that it will look like the blood is coming from between my legs.
I’m able to make three cuts before the pain hits me. I stifle a cry into my elbow and then cut once more—if only to prove that I’m not a coward.
I check the wound. It’s bleeding freely now. I press my legs together so there is blood on both sides. It definitely looks like I’m miscarrying.
There’s no going back now. I’ve come too far. Before I can overthink it, I stash the knife under the mattress.
If I screw up this performance, not only will I be
