Chapter 4 The Second Line
595 Words
The argument was interrupted by a small, trembling sob.
"Mommy, Daddy, please stop fighting. Tessa doesn't need new clothes."
She reached out timidly and tugged at the hem of my shirt, and the tightness behind my eyes instantly turned into a dull ache. My heart softened at once.
Simon cleared his throat awkwardly. "Tessa, don't cry. Daddy's sorry."
Then he looked back at me. "We're supposed to have dinner at my mom's this afternoon," he said in a lowered voice. "Look how sensible our daughter is. Don't make a scene anymore, okay?"
Before I could respond, Tessa reached up with her tiny hand and gently touched the corner of my eye.
"Mommy, don't cry." Her voice was soft and careful. "Tears are pearls."
The familiar phrase hit me harder than it should have. Simon must have taught it to her.
Back when I was pregnant, the morning sickness had been so severe that every day felt endless. I could barely eat, barely sleep, and sometimes I cried simply because I was too exhausted to keep enduring it.
Whenever that happened, Simon would look even more distressed than I was. He would sit beside me, wipe away my tears, massage my swollen feet, and murmur gently, "Tears are pearls."
At the time, I had truly believed every hardship was worth it.
But now, when faced with my tears, Simon only looked at me calmly and said, "I'm going out for a smoke."
A wave of nausea suddenly rose in my stomach.
At first, I thought it was anger, but the strange sense of familiarity made unease slowly creep into my chest. Without saying another word, I went straight to the doctor.
The test results came back quickly. The doctor glanced at the report before looking up at me with a practiced expression.
"Six weeks," he said. "Are you planning to keep the baby?"
My fingers tightened instinctively around the edge of the report until the paper crumpled in my hand. For a long moment, I couldn't say a single word.
Simon, meanwhile, had supposedly gone out "for a smoke," yet he disappeared for hours.
By the time Tessa finished her IV and I carried her back to the car, I found him sitting in the driver's seat smiling down at his phone. The moment he saw us approaching, he quickly locked the screen, though the smile still lingered on his face.
My gaze drifted toward the passenger seat.
Years ago, a sticker reading "Megan's Seat" had once been stuck there. Even after I tore it off myself, a faint layer of adhesive remained no matter how hard I scrubbed.
Back then, Simon had only glanced at it casually and said, "Forgot to remove it. Sorry."
But when I had excitedly shown him the custom sticker I ordered that read "Claire's Seat," his expression immediately tightened.
"We're not kids anymore," he said dismissively. "Don't do things like this. People will laugh if they see it."
The excitement inside me had gone cold instantly. After that, I never brought it up again.
Yet the stubborn traces left behind on that seat somehow felt exactly the same as the marks those words had left inside me. No matter how much time passed, they never completely disappeared.
As soon as we arrived outside his mother's house, laughter drifted out from inside.
Then I heard a familiar woman's voice. My heart lurched violently.
The front door swung open, and a cloud of overpowering perfume rushed toward me. The woman standing there with perfectly styled waves froze the moment she saw me.
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