The Dying Wife's Secret Baby Bump

The leather chair squeaked under Arlene's shifting weight. The sound was too loud in the sterile quiet of Dr. Bancroft's office. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, stopping the nervous tremor in her fingers. The air tasted like antiseptic and stale coffee.

Dr. Bancroft walked in, his shoulders stiff. He didn't sit down immediately. He stood by his desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. That gesture. Arlene had seen it three times today. It meant hesitation. It meant bad news.

He finally sat, the leather of his chair groaning under him. He picked up a manila folder, opened it, and slid a piece of paper across the polished mahogany toward her.

Arlene looked down. The black typeface blurred for a second before her eyes focused. Glioblastoma. The word sat there, heavy and absolute.

"It's grade four," Dr. Bancroft said. His voice was professional, stripped of emotion, but it couldn't mask the weight of the sentence. "It's the most aggressive type of brain tumor. Even with the most rigorous treatment protocols-surgery, radiation, chemotherapy-the prognosis is extremely poor."

Arlene stared at the word. Glioblastoma. It sounded like a foreign curse. She waited for the panic to hit, for the air to leave her lungs. Instead, a strange numbness spread through her chest. It was like listening to a weather report about a storm happening in another state.

"How long?" she asked. Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. Flat.

"Months," Dr. Bancroft said. "Maybe six, if we start immediately. But likely less."

Months. Arlene blinked. The numbness held. It felt like a protective shell, keeping the reality at bay.

Dr. Bancroft took a deep breath. He shifted in his seat, looking down at the folder again. "There's something else, Arlene."

She looked up, meeting his eyes. How could there be anything worse than a death sentence?

"Before we proceed, I'm glad we ran the full blood panel you requested," he began, his tone cautious. "You mentioned your cycle was late, and you thought it might be stress-related..."

"Yes?" Arlene prompted, her heart beginning a slow, heavy drum against her ribs.

"The blood work we did came back with elevated hCG levels." He paused, letting the medical jargon hang in the air. "You're pregnant. Approximately six weeks."

The numbness shattered. It wasn't a slow crack; it was a violent implosion. Her hand moved before her brain could catch up, pressing flat against her stomach. The fabric of her silk blouse felt rough under her suddenly sweaty palm.

Pregnant. A baby.

"The location of the tumor and the required treatment..." Dr. Bancroft's voice softened, taking on that careful tone doctors used when delivering tragic ironies. "Radiation and chemotherapy would be devastating to a fetus, especially at this stage of development. We would have to terminate the pregnancy to pursue any meaningful treatment for the tumor."

Arlene's throat closed up. Terminate. Treat. Choose. Her fingers curled, digging into the soft flesh of her abdomen as if she could