The Forgotten Anniversary

Standing frozen outside the hospital room, Clara felt the sterile chill of the corridor seep into her bones. Her hand hovered near the glass panel of the door, trembling slightly as she found herself unable to shake the bitter, visceral memory of Declan's harsh, dismissive words. They had been directed at her exactly two years ago, but the sting felt as fresh as an open wound.

"You're still in the early stages of your pregnancy. How could there be any movements yet? Show some maturity, and don't embarrass yourself!"

The cruel memory played loudly in her mind. Clara watched in agonizing silence as Declan, contradicting his past stance, obsessed over Lila. Lila was barely a month pregnant, yet Declan treated her as if she were made of spun glass.

From the hospital bed, Lila whined in a deliberate, saccharine tone, her voice muffled but distinct through the heavy door. "Declan, come chat with me."

Declan did not sigh or show a hint of annoyance. Instead, he gently but firmly refused her request. His eyes remained locked onto the glossy pages of a thick pregnancy magazine resting on his lap. "I need to finish reading this," he replied, his tone laced with an endless reserve of patience. "I must finish reading the nutritional and safety information for your sake. You just focus on resting."

The stark, undeniable contrast between his coldness toward Clara's past pregnancy and his meticulous devotion to Lila's current one felt like a brutal physical blow. It crushed Clara's spirit. She realized with certainty that her past miscarried child—and the new, secret life she currently carried within her womb—were always destined for his neglect. They were unloved burdens, while Lila's child was his treasure.

Utterly defeated, she physically retreated from the hospital corridor. Her footsteps felt heavy, dragging against the linoleum floor as if she wore shackles. She whispered to herself in profound despair, acknowledging that Declan's love for Lila remained steadfast and unchanged over all these years. Placing the blame squarely on herself, she murmured to the empty hallway, "It was me who forcefully broke them apart..."

Later that evening, the scene shifted to the sprawling Hawthorne villa. Declan returned home early, loosening his tie as he stepped into the dining room. He stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing in confusion. He found an empty table—a stark, jarring break from the meticulous, warm domestic routine Clara had maintained for years. There were no steaming dishes waiting for him, no inviting aroma wafting from the kitchen, no sign of life in the usually vibrant space.

Searching the quiet house, he finally found Clara sitting blankly in a wooden rocking chair in the dimly lit living room. The gentle creak of the wood swaying back and forth was the only sound breaking the heavy silence. Her eyes reflected the ambient light from the hallway brightly, yet they were hauntingly hollow, staring past the walls into a void he could not see.

He approached her softly, breaking the silence by asking, "Have you had dinner?"

Snapping out of her dissociative daze, Clara slowly lifted her head. She met his gaze with a deeply vulnerable, pleading expression. "Declan," she said, her voice raspy, "shall we go to the hospital for IVF tomorrow?"

The request caught Declan off guard. His posture stiffened, and his expression tightened into immediate disapproval. He quickly reminded her of the risky surgery she had endured two years prior. "You haven't recovered from the surgery. They had to remove a ruptured fallopian tube due to an ectopic pregnancy. IVF is far too dangerous for someone in your condition." He stared down at her, warning her sternly, "Don't joke about risking your life."

He let out a short breath, pacing a step away before proposing an alternative. "We can always adopt one from an orphanage if you want a child. You don't need to put too much pressure on yourself."

To Clara, this adoption suggestion triggered a bitter, inward wave of amusement and disgust. She saw right through the facade. She was convinced that this was a premeditated ploy by Declan. He intended to wait, and eventually bring Lila's illegitimate child into their home under the guise of adoption, using it as a convenient way to officially acknowledge the baby without causing a public scandal.

Stifling the hot tears threatening to spill down her pale cheeks, she gripped the wooden armrests and altered her approach. She asked him softly, "What are you intending to bring for our daughter tomorrow?"

However, before he could process or answer the question, a sudden, sharp text alert from his phone pierced the quiet room, drowning out her quiet voice.

Operating on pure instinct and tuning Clara out, Declan pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen illuminated his face with a pale blue glow. His eyes darted across the screen as he read an urgent message from Lila. She complained of severe stomach pains after consuming lobster.

Panic set in instantly. Declan forgot Clara was even in the room. He furiously scoured the internet on his phone, searching for the specific medical risks of lobster consumption during early pregnancy. His brows furrowed deeply, etching lines of profound concern into his face as he rapidly read through articles detailing the potential for minor abdominal pain and, more alarmingly, miscarriages.

From her reclined, lower position in the rocking chair, Clara’s eyes caught a fleeting but distinct glimpse of his illuminated screen. The glaring text regarding miscarriages burned into her vision. The sight caused her fragile heart to physically ache anew. He was frantic over a stomach ache, yet he ignored the child they had already lost.

Yet, against the backdrop of the dark, quiet night, a melancholy, eerie smile slowly widened across her face. Pushing through the suffocating pain, she attempted to bring the conversation back to the most important topic in her heart.

"Declan," Clara began, her voice trailing off as she struggled to find the right words. "Our daughter's death anniversary..."