Then he left and closed the door.
I stood there in the entryway, still wearing my coat, staring at the closed door. The silence was absolute. Even the city sounds from far below didn't penetrate these walls.
My hands found my stomach. Pressed against the flatness there, trying to feel something, anything. Twelve weeks. How?
I grabbed my coat from where I'd left it by the door. My spare keys from the bowl on the console table. I needed to get to a hospital. A different hospital. Get tested again. Prove him wrong.
The elevator ride down felt endless. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I found my car in the garage—the BMW he'd given me when we got married, the one I barely drove because there was nowhere to go. The keys were under the seat where I always left them.
I started the engine. P
