News Flash, My Uterus is Rusty

The doctor's words hit me like a ton of bricks.

Another failed IVF. My fifth.

"Mrs. Miller, I'm afraid your uterine environment isn't ideal for sustaining a pregnancy right now. Let's focus on getting you healthy before we try again."

The nurse handed me a tissue. "Is Mr. Miller not with you today?"

I couldn't speak. My eyes stayed glued to the grayscale blur on the ultrasound monitor.

"He's busy," I finally whispered.

Alone, I shuffled back to my room—and that's when I saw him. Mark Miller, standing in the glass elevator, his hand tucked inside some girl's coat. Their intimacy was shameless, casual. Unmistakable.

"Sarah's uterus is shot," he chuckled, his voice carrying through the thin gap of the closing doors. "Like a rusty old machine that needs repairs."

My blood ran cold.

"Don't worry," he murmured to her. "Just take care of our baby."

It was Mark's voice. No doubt.

My whole world tilted. Just yesterday, he had his ear pressed against my belly, whispering, "Hear that, baby? Mommy and Daddy are waiting for you."

I actually believed he wanted this—wanted us. But all along, I was the one who was disposable.

The irony was a physical ache. All that guilt I'd carried over every failed cycle now felt pathetic. Naive.

Back in my room, the scent of sugar-free soy milk hung in the air. Mark rushed in, tie crooked, eyes soft with fake concern.

"We'll take it slow, honey. Don't worry—we'll have our baby."

He handed me the cup. "Try this. It's red date soy milk. New at the café downstairs."

Then his phone buzzed. A delivery notification for ice cream and bird's nest soup from some high-end place. Delivery address: the VIP maternity suite.

The night before I was admitted, Mark told me the VIP ward wasn't worth it—since I was only staying one night, why waste the money?

But Sarah… she was already five months along. Probably here for a check-up. And he put her in a suite that costs six figures a month.

Suddenly, the soy milk tasted like ash.

Eight years. We built everything from nothing. Scraped our way up from an empty bank account to a life so many would envy. And this was my reward? Five-dollar soy milk while his mistress feasts on bird's nest soup?

His phone buzzed again. Mark was still dabbing leftover ultrasound gel off my belly, completely unaware.

A text flashed across his lock screen:

"Mark, the baby's kicking so hard! He misses his daddy."

Tears burned behind my eyes. A bitter laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

I remembered a night seven years ago—rain hammering against the windows. We were broke. Really broke. He brought a thermos of homemade fish soup to the hospital and fed me spoon by spoon while we waited for my bloodwork. The nurses would tease us, "Lab results aren't back yet, but the dog food's here!"