Valentine Disappointment

After I became pregnant, my figure changed, and my face grew puffy. My fiancé began to treat me with a subtle, almost imperceptible sense of disdain.

When the baby was five months along, it happened to be Valentine's Day. That day, he finally agreed to take our wedding photos, something I'd been hoping for.

But just as we arrived at the bridal studio, his phone rang.

"Mike, I just got back to the country. My friends are hosting a gathering, and everyone's bringing their boyfriends. Could you come and pretend to be mine?"

It was a few short sentences, yet it completely altered the expression on his face. He turned abruptly, stepping out of the studio with a look of urgency.

"Lucy's back. I have to go see her," he said.

Hearing those words, a fire of rage ignited inside me, one I couldn't suppress.

"For her? You're going to leave me here alone?" I demanded. "Do you even know how long I've been looking forward to today? It's Valentine's Day, and instead of staying with me, you're going to be with her?"

His impatience flared visibly as I stood my ground. Without a word, his hand pushed me aside, and he strode out of the shop.

"We can take wedding photos any day. I'm the only one Lucy has in this country. I have to go see her," he said.

Then, gripping my wrist with alarming force, he shoved me, sending me sprawling to the floor. Without a backward glance, he got into his car and drove off.

I felt a sudden, wet heat flowing from my lower abdomen. Pain surged through my stomach, sharp and unbearable, as my consciousness started to fade.

A wave of despair and terror consumed me.

Someone. Anyone. Please save my baby.

The doctor looked visibly startled when he saw me in the hospital room.

Not long ago, I had come to him for a prenatal checkup and asked how to ensure my baby's health.

"I'm sorry. Unfortunately, the child couldn't be saved," he said, his voice tinged with pity and sympathy.

"Should we inform the father? Strange, it's Valentine's Day, and he's not here with you. Was there something urgent?"

Oddly, I felt nothing. Just an eerie calm.

"The child's father is already dead," I replied.

"You'll need to stay a few days for observation. I'll arrange a room for you," he said gently.

I nodded softly.

The hospital room was suffocatingly silent. I placed my hand over my now-flat stomach. My body had changed so much during the pregnancy—stretch marks had begun to appear. I never found them unsightly; they were gifts from my beloved child.

But now, those marks felt like cruel reminders, stabbing at my heart. My child was gone, taken away by his own father.

Memories flooded back: the cold operating table, the numbing anesthesia, and beside me, my tiny baby.

I cradled the small black box in my arms. My child rested inside it.

He hadn't even seen