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Chapter 15
Chapter 15:
The procedure room was cold. Clinical. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there.
I lay on the table, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny holes in the acoustic panels above me. One, two, three, four. Something to focus on. Something besides the quiet efficiency of the medical staff, the gentle pressure, the strange absence where pressure had been.
I’m sorry, little one, I thought, and the words felt inadequate for the enormity of what was happening. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a happy home. I’m sorry your father is who he is. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to be your mother.
The nurse touched my arm gently. “We’re done. You did great p>
I didn’t feel great. I felt hollow. Excavated. But also, beneath the grief, something like relief. Like putting down a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying.
He was waiting in the parking lot when we emerged from the hospital.
Of course he was. Nathan Calloway, looking like he’d slept in his car—which he probably had—his designer suit wrinkled, his usually perfect hair disheveled, his eyes wild with something that might have been desperation or might have been wounded pride. It was hard to tell with him anymore.
He spotted me and started running. “Vivian! Thank God, I’ve been trying to reach you, I came as fast as I could, we need to talk about p>
My father’s fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence.
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Nathan went down hard, sprawling on the asphalt, his mouth already swelling. He stared up at my father with genuine shock—Nathan had always been so careful to be charming around my parents, so certain of their approval.
“Stay away from my daughter,” Dad said quietly. The quiet was scarier than any shout.
I stepped over Nathan’s prone form without looking down. “We’re done. Sign the papers. Move on with your life. I’m moving on with mine p>
“Vivian, wait p>
I got in the car and closed the door. Mom followed. Dad gave Nathan one last look—the kind of look that promised serious consequences if he didn’t heed the warning—and then we were moving, pulling out of the parking lot, leaving Nathan Calloway on the ground where he belonged.
Through the rear window, I saw him struggle to his feet, his hand pressed to his jaw, staring after us.
I turned away.
Some endings don’t need a final word.
