“My mother was right — I never should’ve married a small-town girl like you,” my husband snarled in our dark apartment, whiskey heavy on his breath, then

“No,” he said. “You’re the only real thing in my life.”

She believed him.

But the cracks widened slowly.

Paul came home from night shifts at the Hy-Vee supermarket on First Avenue smelling like coffee, disinfectant, and exhaustion. Kate left for the café or rehearsal just as he crawled into bed. Their lives overlapped in odd corners: a note on the fridge, a plate covered with foil, a half-awake kiss in the doorway.

At first, it felt like sacrifice.

Then it began to feel like distance.

When Kate mentioned an audition for a regional production in Iowa City, Paul frowned.

“You don’t have to chase every little thing.”

“It’s not little to me.”

“We have a good life right here.”

“It’s just an audition.”

“It’s always just an audition.”

His tone made her cheeks burn.

She didn’t go.

That night, she wrote in her journal: Maybe love means choosing the life in front of you.

Then she stared at the sentence until it looked like something someone else had written.

Part 4

The pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter like a verdict.

A small plastic stick.

Two blue lines.

Kate stared until her eyes blurred.

For a moment, she could not breathe. Then she laughed, a tiny broken sound, and covered her mouth with both hands.

A baby.

Fear came first.

Then wonder.

Then a tenderness so sudden it made her knees weak.

She sat on the edge of the tub and pressed one hand to her stomach, even though there was nothing to feel yet.

“Hello,” she whispered.

She waited all afternoon for Paul to come home.

She cleaned the kitchen twice. Changed shirts. Put the test in a little gift bag, then took it out because that felt too cute. Practiced smiling in the microwave door reflection and hated herself for needing to practice.

Paul came in just after midnight. His uniform shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were tired. He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and rubbed his face.

“Long night?” Kate asked.

“Inventory issue. Some guy tried to walk out with half the meat department.”

She almost laughed because that sounded like one of the normal stories he used to tell.

Then her nerves took over.

“Paul, I have something to tell you.”

He paused.

She held the pregnancy test with both hands.

“We’re going to have a baby.”

The silence stretched.

Kate’s smile trembled.

Paul looked at the test. Then at her. Then back at the test.

“A baby,” he said.

“Yes.”

His eyes didn’t light up.

They emptied.

“I know it’s a surprise,” Kate said quickly. “But I think—”

“You really think we can afford that right now?”

The words hit like cold water.

Kate blinked. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“Happy?” He gave a short laugh. “Kate, you work part-time at a café and do theater that barely pays gas money. I’m pulling doubles to keep rent paid. How exactly do you think this works?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“People have babies without perfect plans every day.”

“People also ruin their lives every day.”

She set the test on the counter.

“Don’t call our baby a ruined life.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You meant it.”

Paul turned away, then turned back.

“You should think about options.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Kate put a hand on the counter to steady herself.

“No.”

“Just think, Kate.”

“No. Don’t even say that to me.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“This is our child.”

He stared at her, jaw tight.

“Fine,” he said.

But it was not fine.

Nothing was fine after that.

Over the next few weeks, Paul’s sarcasm sharpened. Not all at once. Not enough that Kate could point to one moment and say, There. That is where he became cruel.

Cruelty moved in like cold under a door.

A comment about grocery prices.

A joke about her “farm-girl appetite.”

A sigh when she bought prenatal vitamins.

A muttered line about how her parents probably had plenty of potatoes to spare.

One morning, she was eating toast at the counter when he opened the electric bill.

“Maybe your folks can send money,” he said.

Kate looked up.

“They’re not rich.”

“No, just noble dirt people, right? Hard work, honest living, all that.”

“My parents have helped us before.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“What does that mean?”

Paul folded the bill slowly.

“It means people like your family give with strings.”

Kate felt heat rise in her face. “My father would give you the shirt off his back.”

“Exactly. Then remind you every day he was cold.”

She pushed her plate away.

“You don’t know him.”

“I know the type.”

The type.