It All Ends the Same
While I was five months pregnant, my husband, Randall Harris, accompanied his assistant to the hospital for an IV drip.
He even posted a selfie with her on social media.
I called him, and he lied straight to my face, saying he was stuck in a meeting at the office.
When I confronted him, he fought with me, gave me the cold shoulder, and then went straight back to his assistant for comfort.
“Are you sure you don’t want to notify the baby’s father? The surgeon asked me. “After this surgery, you won’t ever be able to have children again.”
I closed my eyes.
“He’s dead to me.”
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