The Wife He Left Behind

Chapter 4

Goodbye and Two Lines

Isabel pov

I went for a run this morning. Something I never do. The streets blurred as I ran, my feet thumping against pavement slick from a recent drizzle. My vision swam, not just from the tears, but from something deeper—something fractured. Each breath hurts. Each step felt like it would break me. The way Adrian looked at me kept playing in my head. The exact words he said.

“I don’t love you anymore. I chose her.”

The words pounded in my head like a cruel metronome, echoing with every heartbeat. My stomach twisted violently. I barely made it to the edge of the sidewalk before doubling over, retching into a drain. The bitter taste in my mouth was nothing compared to the ache in my chest.

I tried to run another lap but my head felt dizzy. I flagged down a cab, gave my address, and collapsed against the cold leather seat, numb and hollow.

I'd spent the night on the bathroom floor. I couldn’t bear to sleep in the bed we once shared—the one I picked out, It still smelled like him. Like her.

This morning, I forced myself to get up, brush my teeth, ignoring the lingering acid burn in my throat, and tried to find normalcy in the way the sunlight filtered through the curtains. But nothing felt normal anymore. So I decided to go for a sprint. Thank goodness for the track suit I found in my closet. But nothing was working anymore.

When I got home I moved like a ghost. I washed the dishes in the sink, changed the towels, I even made coffee I felt too sick to drink.

Then I threw up again.

By the third time this morning, I stopped blaming the heartbreak. My hands trembled as I took out the calendar and counted backwards from my last period.

No.

No, no, no.

I was never late. Something was very wrong somewhere.

The test took three minutes. I didn’t look at it until minute five. I was too busy pacing in tight circles in the bathroom, my arms hugging my body as if that could keep me from falling apart.

When I turned around and saw the two pink lines, I stopped breathing. I sank to the floor, the test still in my hand.

Pregnant.

The word repeated itself over and over in my mind, soft at first, then louder. Like a drumbeat building toward hysteria.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually, I made myself get dressed and drove to the doctor’s office. I didn’t call ahead. I just walked in, clutching my coat around me like armor.

The receptionist smiled politely and asked for my name. I gave it without thinking. Waiting for my appointment felt like torture. I sat between a glowing young couple whispering about baby names and a tired woman flipping through a parenting magazine. My hands were ice cold.

“Isabel Moretti?” the nurse called.

I answered. I followed her down the hall like I was being led to an execution chamber praying that my body and mind were playing tricks with me. With so much at stake now, I couldn't afford to get pregnant.

The doctor was kind. Gentle, even. She spoke in low tones and explained everything carefully. She put a warm jelly on my stomach, pressed something down and then....

A tiny heartbeat. Pulsing from the monitor. It was like a flutter. Faint and fast.

My child.

“Congratulations Mrs Moretti. You are three months pregnant.”

My eyes widened in shock. Stunned. I couldn't say a word. The doctor handed me a black-and-white ultrasound photo and I stared at it like it was some relic from another life.

Three months was the last time Adrian ever touched me. And even then it was quick and emotionless. Like he was tired of sleeping next to me while I was being useless.

I didn’t cry in the car. I didn’t cry when I parked in front of the house. I didn’t cry when I passed the photo of Adrian and me from our honeymoon in Bali—him grinning, arms around me, our foreheads touching. I sat on my bed defeated. I didn't know if I should hate the baby or curse the father that brought me so much pain.

He wasn't back yet. Probably still with Celeste in the hotel. His so-called business trip. He was right in the arms of another woman while I struggled to accept my new reality.

A single pregnant woman.

Because there was nothing that's going to make me stay. Because I wouldn't remain in a marriage I sacrificed myself to build for nine years scorned, betrayed and broken.

I slowly walked down the stairs and in a fit of rage all my wedding pictures came crashing down on the floor. I stepped on the broken glasses with my bare foot and tore all the pictures to pieces. All nine of them. I cried so hard. Harder than I've ever done in my entire life but it wasn't enough. What stopped me was the little sound I had heard earlier. The heart beat that was produced from my belly. I wanted to regret it but it was too late. I shouldn't have given up my career to tend to his home. I shouldn't have helped him build an empire from nothing. I shouldn't have been in the background, quiet. But what good is crying over spilled milk? I drew inspiration from my baby and decided to be strong.

Not just for me but for the baby. I decided to pick up all the broken pieces of my life and put them together. I walked upstairs, packed a suitcase, and sat down to write a letter.

Adrian,

I heard what you said. It never stopped ringing in my ears.

I hope Celeste gives you everything you want, because whatever we had died in that hotel room.

You once told me you’d never stop loving me. That I was your safe place. I don’t know when that stopped being true, but I felt it the moment you looked at me like I was an inconvenience.

I’m not angry anymore. Just tired.

I'll treat myself better because I deserve better.

Goodbye,

Isabel.

I left the letter on the kitchen table, next to his favorite mug. The one I used to fill every morning with black coffee and one sugar.

Then I walked out of the house I once called home. I didn’t take everything. Just the essentials. A suitcase, the ultrasound photo folded neatly into my wallet, and a single shred of dignity I didn't know I still possessed.

He found the letter later that evening. I know because I saw it in the trash two weeks later, when I came back to collect the last of my belongings.

I bet he didn't even read the second page. The one where I told him I was pregnant. I left without cleaning the broken pieces of glasses—our shattered wedding pictures.

So that he'll know what he did the night he shattered me. I made reservations at a hotel and then made a phone call.

“Prepare my divorce papers. I'm done with my husband.”