Ellie was eight months pregnant when you ended it. Or in other words, I was eight months pregnant.
I just feel for the sake of the baby, we should draw a line in the sand now.
You fucking bastard. You said that the relationship had run its course and that you wanted to play a part in the baby’s life but that you thought it was for the best if we went our separate ways as a couple. That we should work out “how to be apart” before the baby came.
How to be apart. Ha! What does that even mean, Floyd?
I don’t think you really knew, to be honest. I think you were just sick of not getting any sex, I think you wanted to be able to go off and screw someone else. That’s what I think.
I managed not to beg. I managed not to plead. And I still had my trump card. The baby. I was very calm, remember? I went up to your room to pack up the belongings that had migrated there over the years. My toothbrush, my deodorant, my hairbrush, spare pants. That kind of thing. I dropped them all into a carrier bag; they made a sad sight when I peered in at them. I was wearing a top of yours, an oversized T-shirt that skimmed my fake bump. I thought about stealing it but then I thought it would have more poignancy if I left it draped across your bed for you to come upon that evening as you climbed into bed, for you to maybe think, Oh Noelle, what have I done? When I left the room, your horrible daughter was standing there on the landing, looking at me as she did with those horror-movie eyes. Fuck you, I thought as I swanned past her. Fuck you.
Because I knew what I had in my basement. And I knew that it was better than her. And if it was better than her, then it could still bring us back together.
I had not lost hope.
