Her Sacrifice for His Love

The morning light filtered through our bedroom curtains, casting a pale glow across the room. I winced as I opened my eyes, the familiar ache in my chest intensifying with each breath. Today was my birthday—my last birthday.

I pressed my palm against my sternum, feeling the irregular flutter beneath my skin. Three years left. No, less than that now.

"Jackson?" I whispered into the empty space beside me.

He hadn't come home again last night.

I dragged myself upright, swallowing against the metallic taste in my mouth. The room spun slightly as I stood, but I steadied myself against the dresser. This was going to be a bad day. I could feel it in the way my lungs refused to fully expand, in the weight that had settled deep in my bones.

In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection. Pale skin, hollow cheeks, eyes too large for my face. I looked like I was already half-dead.

"Twenty-eight," I whispered to the mirror. "The last time I'll see this day."

I forced a smile, trying to remember what it felt like to genuinely feel that expression. It had been so long since something had made me truly happy.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I moved mechanically through the familiar motions. Jackson's favorite breakfast—crispy bacon, perfectly golden eggs, toast with just the right amount of butter. I arranged the food carefully on his plate, placing a small vase of daisies—his favorite—in the center of the table. I lit two candles, their tiny flames dancing in the morning light.

"Make a wish," I murmured to myself, though I wasn't sure what I would wish for anymore.

The urge to cough hit suddenly, violently. I clamped my hand over my mouth and stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it before my body betrayed me. Blood splattered the white porcelain, bright and accusing.

"No, no, no," I gasped, grabbing the bleach from under the sink. I scrubbed frantically at the evidence, watching as the blood dissolved into pink streaks that eventually disappeared down the drain.

My hands trembled as I cleaned. Jackson couldn't know. He couldn't see me like this.

When I returned to the dining room, I was pale but composed, a smile fixed on my face that didn't reach my eyes.

"Morning," Jackson said, appearing in the doorway. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he was already scrolling through his phone.

"Happy birthday, Phoebe." He glanced up briefly, his smile not quite meeting his eyes.

I nodded, trying to ignore the way my heart clenched at his distracted greeting. "I made your favorite."

"Thanks." He sat down but kept his phone in his hand, thumbs typing rapidly.

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the soft ping of notifications from his device.

"Aren't you going to eat?" I asked softly.

"Sorry, can't." He stood abruptly, pocketing his phone. "Megan's having some complications. I need to take her to her prenatal appointment."