When I terminated the second pregnancy, Jake came to the hospital only once.
He even cooked me porridge — a rare move for someone born with a silver spoon.
But I spilled it on the floor and dumped his card into the bin.
I didn’t even know what came over me.
Maybe it was his offhanded, “You’re getting dramatic. You didn’t stay this long last time.”
Or maybe it was because of Rachel.
His first love — the girl he hadn’t seen in seven years.
The night she came back, Jake drank a lot.
He said he’d forgotten her.
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