Emergence from the Cocoon
Chapter 1
The doctor’s words hit me like a ton of bricks:
another failed IVF attempt. My fifth.
“Mrs. Miller, your uterine environment isn’t
ideal for carrying a baby. Focus on getting
your health back on track before trying
again.”
The nurse handed me a tissue. “Is Mr. Miller
not with you today?”
I stared at the grayscale blob on the
ultrasound screen, speechless.
“He’s busy.”
Alone, I shuffled back to my room, only to see
Mark Miller in the glass elevator.
His hand was inside a girl’s coat, their
intimacy blatant.
“Sarah’s uterus is shot, it’s like a rusty
machine needing repairs,” he chuckled.
Their casual flirting sent a jolt through me.
く
“Don’t worry, just take care of our baby,” he
said.
It was undeniably Mark’s voice.
My world tilted. I remembered yesterday,
Mark’s ear pressed against my belly,
whispering, “Hear that, baby? Mommy and
Daddy are waiting for you.”
I’d thought he yearned for our child, but
clearly, I was expendable.
The irony stung. My guilt over the failed IVF
cycles felt sickeningly naive.
Back in my room, the aroma of sugar–free
soy milk drifted in. Mark looked harried, his
tie askew. His gaze was tender.
“We’ll take it slow, honey. Don’t worry, we’ll have a baby.‘”
He opened a container of soy milk. “Try this, it’s a new item from the cafe downstairs; red
date soy milk.‘
His phone buzzed – a delivery notification for
ice cream and bird’s nest soup from a high–
end restaurant. The delivery address: the VIP
maternity ward.
The night before admission, Mark had said
the VIP and regular wards were the same;
since I was only staying a night, VIP was
wasteful.
Sarah’s swollen belly flashed in my mind. She
was about five months pregnant; this visit
was probably just a checkup.
Yet, he’d put her in a six–figure VIP suite!
The soy milk tasted like ashes.
Eight years of building our life from nothing
to millions, and this was my reward? Five-
dollar soy milk?
His phone vibrated again. Mark, oblivious,
was gently wiping the leftover medication
from my belly.
Sarah’s text appeared on the lock screen:
“Mark, the baby’s kicking so hard! He misses
く
his daddy.
“”
Tears welled. A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
I recalled a stormy night seven years ago,
when we were penniless. He’d bring a
thermos of homemade fish soup to the
hospital, feeding me spoonful by spoonful
while I waited for blood tests. The nurses
would joke, “Blood work’s not back yet, but
the dog food is ready!”
When did the man who loved me so fiercely
change? I remembered Sarah’s first day as
his secretary.
Mark, who always needed me to find the right
acupuncture point through his shirt before
applying pain relief patches, left his patches
untouched in his briefcase. But a new thread
appeared on the second button of his shirt.
His phone began facing down; Sarah’s daily
reminders replaced my ovulation reminders.
