I knew exactly what I had been thinking.
Claire closed her eyes as another wave of pain crossed through her body. I grabbed her coat from the chair and helped her into it carefully.
Then she noticed my eyes flick again toward the backward seams of her nightgown.
“I changed after showering,” she explained quietly. “I got dizzy. I didn’t even realize it was backward.”
The explanation was painfully simple.
No affair.
No hidden man.
Just a frightened pregnant woman trying to dress herself while in pain and alone.
I knelt to tie her shoes because she couldn’t bend properly anymore, and silence filled the room heavily around us.
Not empty silence.
Punishing silence.
The elevator ride downstairs felt endless.
Claire leaned against the wall clutching the blue folder tightly against her chest while harsh fluorescent lights drained the remaining color from her face.
I stood beside her without touching her.
Because suddenly I didn’t know whether my touch still comforted her.
Fifth floor.
Fourth.
Third.
Every pause felt deserved.
Outside, freezing November air hit us instantly. Claire inhaled sharply through clenched teeth while I guided her carefully toward the car.
When I opened the passenger door, she stopped suddenly.
For one terrifying second, I thought she might collapse.
Instead, she looked at me quietly and asked:
“Were you scared for me first… or angry first?”
The question was almost gentle.
That gentleness destroyed me.
Because she could have screamed.
She could have accused me.
