His Regret Came Too Late, I Don't Want It Anymore

In the most dangerous seventh month of my twin pregnancy, Adrian invited friends over and threw a welcome-home dinner for Vivian, who had just returned to the country. During a round of truth or dare, someone asked him, "If Serena and Vivian both fell into the water and there was only one life jacket, who would you give it to?" I was in the nursery folding baby clothes when I heard his answer come without a moment's hesitation. "Vivi. Serena's tough. She can swim back on her own." My mother chimed in, "Rena grew up in the countryside. She's tough as nails. But Vivi is delicate. She can't handle that kind of scare." Then my brother, the one I had poured everything into putting through school, laughed too. "My sister does whatever Adrian tells her. Forget a life jacket. You could ask her to donate both kidneys to Vivian and she wouldn't dare say a word." The room went quiet around me, with nothing but the steady thud of kicks against my palm. They didn't know that the doctor had issued a critical-condition notice for severe preeclampsia just the day before: At any moment, my placenta could separate, I could hemorrhage into my brain, or all three of us could die. I needed to be admitted immediately to terminate the pregnancy. That morning, I had brought the diagnosis to Adrian and begged him to take me to the hospital. He had barely glanced at it before frowning and saying, "Vivi's coming home today. Don't ruin the mood with some unlikely complication." Ten years of devotion, and all I got in return was "tough as nails." I signed the divorce papers, uploaded the recording to the cloud, and called the private hospital. "Send an ambulance. I need an emergency C-section. Now." Since they all thought my life was worthless, I would take my two children and walk out of their precious world forever.