Stupid.

That was what the man I had loved for eight years called me.

The same man who had said the surgery was “for us,” because money was tight, because we could “decide later.”

I reminded him the doctor had said it was not immediate.

That follow-up testing was necessary.

That pregnancy could still happen.

But Diego had already stopped listening.

His verdict was already written across his face.

“Who is he?” he asked.

I froze.

“What?”

“The father. Tell me who he is.”

I felt sick.

Not because of the baby.

Because of him.

That night, he packed a suitcase.

Not many clothes.

Just enough to let me know another place was already waiting.

“I’m going to Paola,” he said, without shame.

Paola.

His coworker.