Mark took me to see our baby. Her tiny body was being kept in the hospital morgue. She was so small, wrapped tightly in a white cloth, curled up in a refrigerated drawer like a little kitten, huddled in the cold.

Mark told me she had been born with severe birth defects, including issues with her limbs and heart. By the time they performed the C-section, the amniotic fluid had drained, and she was already gone.

I stood in front of that little, lifeless bundle, sobbing so hysterically it felt like my world was collapsing around me. No matter how long I stood there, I couldn’t accept this cruel reality.

‘How could life be so unfair?’

Eventually, I fainted in Mark’s arms.

The trauma of losing my baby caused my C-section wound to reopen, and for the next two weeks, I was bedridden. I cried until I passed out multiple times. I was too terrified to sleep because every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was the image of my baby’s deformed body.

I stopped speaking to Mark altogether, locking myself away in a small, dark corner of my mind, barely functioning, like a living ghost.

In just two weeks, I lost over 20 pounds.

On the day I was discharged, Mark showed up late that afternoon, almost evening time. He said something had come up at work, which was why he couldn’t get there sooner. He wrapped me up tightly in a scarf and coat, saying he didn’t want me to catch a cold.

But as he leaned close to me, I caught a whiff of a very distinct perfume—one that wasn’t mine.

‘Of course,’ I thought bitterly. ‘You were busy. Busy between the sheets with your mistress while our child’s body is barely cold.’

I pulled away from him, walking alone in the cold wind, heading home without him by my side.

He probably thought I was just heartbroken over the baby, but the reality was I couldn’t stand being near him. He disgusted me.

For the past few weeks, I had been so consumed by grief that I hadn’t even had the energy to confront him about his affair. It wasn’t that I was going to let it slide—I just needed time to think clearly.

One thing that I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around was how, with that time’s medical advancements, could multiple ultrasounds and prenatal tests have missed such severe birth defects. No. Something about the baby’s death didn’t sit right with me. And I was determined to find out whether the issue was with my body or if this was some kind of medical malpractice.

On the drive home, I asked Mark, “We’re both healthy, with no history of genetic disorders. How could our baby have been born with such serious defects? We had every prenatal test done, and none of the ultrasounds showed anything. The hospital owes us an explanation.”

Mark seemed deflated by my question. “Baby, let it go. We don’t need the money.”

“Let it go?” I stared at him, my voice cold and firm. “Mark, that was our child. You’re telling me to let it go?! This isn’t about money!”

Rage suddenly flared up inside me. I hadn’t confronted him about his affair yet, but this—this was our baby. And he was telling me to just forget it?

“That’s not what I meant,” Mark replied quickly, his voice softening. “I just don’t want you to get more upset than you already are. Seeing you hurt breaks my heart. You’ve suffered enough. I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“If you won’t go, I’ll go myself! I need answers, and I need to know what happened to our baby!” I shouted, determined.

Mark’s expression changed. The tender facade he’d been wearing cracked, replaced by a look of growing panic. “June Rand, are you really going to do this?”

He rarely called me by my full name. It was always June or baby or sweetheart. The only time Mark used my full name was when he was angry.

I stared at him in silence, my suspicion deepening. ‘Is Mark finally showing his true self?’ I wondered.

‘Why is he so desperate to stop me from investigating the cause of our baby’s death?’