Her Place

The dull ache in my abdomen hadn't entirely faded, like tiny needles piercing through my bones every so often. Today marks the sixth day since my abortion surgery. The sky outside the window was gray and overcast, mirroring my mood these past few days. Cole said there was an urgent matter at work, so he left early this morning. Before he left, he made porridge for me and reminded me to take my medicine on time. If it were before, I would have been genuinely grateful for this kindness. But right now, I just feel completely drained. The phone screen brightened momentarily—it was a social media notification. Big data always pushes irrelevant content; I was about to swipe it away without a second thought. But the profile picture in that post made my heart tighten suddenly. It was Cole Lowell's account, an alternate account I'd never seen before. The caption was brief, yet each word cut like a knife, tormenting my nerves. "Finally convinced her to have an abortion, so I can fully focus on my Debra. How can I make Debra love me more? Waiting online, it's urgent." Debra. The name felt both unfamiliar and piercing. My fingers trembled as I held the phone, and the pain in my abdomen was instantly eclipsed by an even harsher chill. The "her" he mentioned—was that me? I remembered before the surgery, Cole Lowell holding my hand, his eyes filled with reluctance and heartache. He said his career was just starting, that he didn't have enough energy, and this child had come at the wrong time. He said once things stabilized, we would have a healthy baby and I would have a better home. I believed him. Despite my family's opposition and my own reluctance, I lay on the cold operating table. From beginning to end, I was nothing more than a tool he used to please another woman and remove obstacles. My fingers moved uncontrollably, clicking into that alternate account's profile. There weren't many followers or posts, but each one was connected to that woman named "Debra." The latest posts were all either boasts or pleas for help. One showed the luxury handbag he bought for her, captioned, "My Debra deserves the best." Another was his complaint about me being "stubborn and difficult," and how he had to struggle to convince me to have an abortion. Scrolling down revealed a series of intimate photos. In the photo, Cole Lowell was embracing that woman from behind, his smile softer than I had ever seen. The woman's face was deliberately blurred, but the diamond ring on her finger was clearly visible. I knew that diamond ring's design all too well. Last year, on our wedding anniversary, Cole gave me a set of jewelry—a pair of cufflinks and a diamond ring—saying it was a custom-made, one-of-a-kind design. He said he would wear the cufflinks, and I would wear the diamond ring, symbolizing that we would never be apart. I have always treasured them carefully, only wearing them on special occasions. But at this moment, the diamond ring that should have been mine was on another woman's hand, gleaming with a mocking light. I zoomed in on the photo, my eyes landing on the corner. A folded prenatal report peeked out from the edge. The date was the day before I had the surgery. So that's how it was. He made me terminate my pregnancy to make room for that woman's child. It felt as if a huge stone had crushed my chest; I was suffocating, and tears flooded out without warning. I had suspected Cole might be unfaithful, but I never imagined he could be this cruel. I wiped away my tears, deleted my browsing history, and put my phone back where it belonged. I couldn't cry, nor act impulsively. My body was weak, and I had no one to rely on. If I confronted him now, it would only put me in a more vulnerable position. I decided to endure silently, pretending I knew nothing.