“I’ve been unhappy,” he said.

“So have I.”

“You never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

He swallowed hard, unsettled by how calm I sounded.

“You’re not going to fight?” he asked.

I looked at the man I had once loved enough to build an entire life beside. Then I thought about the tiny life inside me, depending on my very first decision as a mother.

“No,” I said. “I’m not going to fight for a man who quit before the miracle arrived.”

His forehead creased. “What does that mean?”

I smiled, small and cold.

“It means call your lawyer.”

PART 2

By morning, Caleb had moved into a hotel, though he described it as “giving me space,” as if abandonment wrapped in polite language still counted as kindness. By noon, Sarah had posted a photo of a hotel breakfast on Instagram with a caption about “new beginnings.” By evening, I had packed three suitcases, one box of personal records, and the ultrasound appointment card I had scheduled before my hands stopped shaking.

I did not tell Caleb.

Not when he returned two days later carrying the first draft from his attorney. Not when he stood in our kitchen — the one I had redesigned after his first seven-figure deal — talking about “fairness” as though he had invented the concept. Not when he offered me half the liquid assets, a generous settlement, and permission to keep my car.

“You can stay in the house until escrow clears,” he said.