I watched silently as Tyler became doting. He gently placed a hand on her belly and spoke with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years.
“Our little baby has to be born healthy, okay?”
It was a painful scene to witness.
I excused myself to the bathroom, needing a moment to process the ache in my chest.
Inside, I lifted my shirt, exposing the scarred skin of my abdomen.
I thought back to four years ago when Tyler was still an unknown actor. He spent months away chasing roles, leaving me to handle everything at home.
Then, I was four months pregnant, juggling prenatal checkups and caring for his mother, Rachel Green, who had just moved in from the countryside.
One day, I endured an excruciating medical procedure, an eight-centimeter needle piercing my lower back. The pain was nearly unbearable, but when I felt my baby’s gentle kicks, I reminded myself it was all worth it.
That night, despite my exhaustion, I returned home to cook dinner for Rachel.
I never complained, not once.
However, an accident changed everything, leading me to lose my child and creating a gap between me and Tyler.
That day, Rachel insisted on making soup for me, but unfamiliar with the gas stove, she caused a leak.
It led to an explosion that engulfed nearly the entire floor in flames.
