Charles was busy, probably celebrating with Vivien somewhere expensive, while the woman who'd carried their child lay in a hospital bed alone and scared. Realizing that she'd traded her marriage for people who couldn't even be bothered to show up when she needed them most. But that wasn't my problem anymore. I tried to warn her.
I told her exactly what would happen. She'd chosen not to believe me. "Melissa," I said, looking out the kitchen window at our backyard where the kids' swing set sat empty in the fading light, "you made your choice. Now live with it."
And then I hung up and turned off my phone because I was done being her backup plan. Done being the person she turned to when her real priorities let her down. Done being married to someone who'd put her boss's needs ahead of our family's well-being. The baby was born healthy and perfect, just like she'd said.
Charles and Vivien finally showed up at the hospital with flowers and champagne and probably a photographer to document their magical moment. They got their custom-made baby, their happy ending, their perfect little family. And I got to start figuring out what my life looked like without the woman who'd been the center of it for eight years but who'd chosen to give the most intimate part of herself to someone else. The thing about rock bottom is that it's surprisingly comfortable once you've been there for a while.
You'd think it would be this dramatic, soul-crushing experience. But really, it's more like settling into a worn-out recliner. Not pleasant exactly, but familiar enough that you stop noticing how much it sucks. Melissa came home from the hospital three days after giving birth.
And it was like watching a ghost try to resume its old haunting routine. She moved through the house like she was sleepwalking, clutching that baby like it was the last life preserver on the Titanic and looking at me with these desperate, hollow eyes that screamed, "Fix this!" louder than any words ever could. But here's the thing about being the guy who warned everyone the ship was going to sink. By the time you're proven right, nobody wants to hear, "I told you so."
They just want you to somehow magically make everything okay again. Like you're some kind of domestic superhero who can undo months of spectacularly bad decisions with the power of forgiveness and selective amnesia. Not happening. The first week was almost funny in a dark-comedy sort of way.
Melissa would shuffle around the house in her ratty bathrobe, looking like an extra from a zombie movie, while Charles and Vivien's beautiful gift screamed at all hours of the day and night. Turns out babies don't give a damn about your motivations for having them. They're going to cry whether you're their biological mother or just the lady who happened to carry them for nine months. She'd set up a makeshift nursery in the guest bedroom, complete with all the baby gear that Charles and Vivien had bought but apparently couldn't be bothered to take home yet.
The irony wasn't lost on me. Here she was playing house with someone else's kid while our actual children tiptoed around the house like they were afraid to breathe too loud. "Mommy, why is the baby here?" Sophie asked one morning, standing in the kitchen doorway in her favorite pajamas, the ones with unicorns that she insisted had magical powers. "I thought you said he was going to live with other people."