Torn Marriage: Don, It's Too Late to Love Me

On the seventh anniversary of my blood-alliance union, a courier from the Family clinic pressed a folded report into my hand. It confirmed I was carrying a child.

Just as I was about to bring the joy to my husband, a car took the corner too fast and put me on the pavement.

The clinic's doctor called Salvatore more than twenty times. He never answered a single one. In the end I endured the pain alone and signed the surgical consent with my own trembling hand.

When I woke again, the doctor looked at me with an open displeasure no bribe had smoothed over.