CHAPTER 3
707 Words
CHAPTER 3
Helen stood frozen at the doorway, exhaustion weighing on her like wet cement. She had barely stepped inside when Paul’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.
“Where have you been?”
His arms crossed. His tone sharp. His eyes cold.
“Sleeping around? Is that it? Are you cheating on me now?”
The words slammed into her chest so hard she stumbled backward, breath hitching.
“Cheating?” she whispered, barely holding herself together. “Paul… how could you even say that?”
Didn’t he know what she’d been through? Didn’t he care? Their son—their son—was gone, and this was what he cared about?
She had spent the entire night at Vicky’s, curled up in her friend’s arms, drowning in grief. And now she was here, trying not to collapse, and the first thing he threw at her was accusation.
Paul’s eyes swept over her wrinkled dress, her red-rimmed eyes, the emptiness in her face.
“You look like a mess,” he said flatly, disgust curling his lip.
“Do you even care?” Helen choked out.
Paul blinked, genuinely confused. “What are you talking about?”
Helen’s hands shook. “Do you care about our—”
The word lodged in her throat, stabbing her from the inside.
Paul rolled his eyes. “You’re being dramatic. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it later. I just got back. I’m tired.”
Something inside Helen snapped—quietly, sharply.
Her voice came out raw.
“Our son is dead, Paul.”
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating.
Paul’s expression didn’t crack, but something flickered in his eyes—a quick flash of regret. Not enough. Never enough.
Helen’s grief ignited into fury.
“You don’t get to accuse me of cheating when you weren’t even there!” she spat. “Where were you last night? Where were you when I was begging you to answer your phone? When I was running through the streets holding our dying child?”
Paul rubbed his forehead like he was the one suffering.
“I’m sorry you’re upset, but screaming won’t change anything,” he muttered. “I’ll handle the funeral arrangements. Just… don’t cause a scene.”
Helen’s breath shattered.
“A scene?” Her tears came fast, burning. “Our baby is dead! While you were doing—what, exactly? Working?”
His jaw tightened. “I was caught up with a lot at the office. You know how my job is.”
“Work?” she repeated, laughing sharply through her tears. “That’s your excuse? I was fighting for our son’s life, Paul.”
He stepped closer, voice softening like he could smooth everything away.
“Helen, I didn’t think it was serious. I didn’t ignore you on purpose. I’m under a lot of pressure. I’m doing everything for this family.”
“You didn’t think it was serious?” she echoed, disbelief twisting her face.
“Our child is dead.”
Her anger bubbled over. She wanted to break something. She wanted him to feel even a fraction of the agony clawing at her ribs.
Paul sighed, as if she was the unreasonable one.
“I know you’re hurting, okay? But what do you want me to do now? We can’t bring him back. We just… have to move forward.”
Move forward.
The words hit her like ice water.
“How can you say that?” Helen whispered. “He was our son.”
Paul’s voice dipped into that gentle, coaxing tone he always used when he wanted control.
“You need rest. We’ll talk about the funeral later. Don’t let this break us.”
Break us.
As if she was the one destroying something.
Paul stepped in closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“I hate seeing you like this, baby,” he murmured.
But Helen didn’t melt this time.
She felt nothing but rage.
She had never felt more alone.
More unseen.
More trapped.
“We’re in this together,” Paul whispered.
Helen met his eyes, her jaw trembling.
“No,” she said softly, breaking for the final time.
“I’m in this alone. You always were somewhere else.”
- Writer
