I don't sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I smell it again… that sweet, cloying scent that doesn't belong on him, that shouldn't be there, that makes my stomach turn and my chest ache in equal measure.
So I don't close my eyes.
I just lie on the bed in my old room staring at the ceiling, hand pressed against my stomach, trying to breathe through the way everything hurts.
The baby moves occasionally.
Small flutters that remind me this isn't just about me, that I can't fall apart completely because there's someone else depending on me to hold it together.
I press my hand more firmly against the bump.
Four months.
Halfway there.
Halfway to becoming a parent with someone who was apparently with someone else tonight while I sat here waiting to tell him good news.
The thought makes my throat close up again.
I turn onto my side, pull my knees up as much as the bump allows, and try to make myself smaller.
