I spent two hours in the hospital. receiving IV fluids, but Antonio never came.
Feeling awful. I took a cab home; my phone had died just two minutes earlier.
Antonio hadn’t called once.
“You blocked me,” I said, explaining the situation.
He seemed surprised, then softened. “I got you fried chicken, your favorite.”
The bucket showed mostly empty, clearly someone else’s leftovers.
Thirty minutes ago, I’d seen Wendy’s Facebook post.
There was a picture of Antonio cooking chicken, captioned, “A man who can cook is so sexy.”
A bitter laugh escaped me. “Toss it. I’m not hungry.”
His face darkened. “Toss it?
“I gave the house to Wendy so her kid could study. Why did you mock her on Facebook?”
Exhausted from the miscarriage and injury, I explained, “I was confused. The title deed she posted had our address…”
Antonio cut me oll. “You’re always playing the victim!
“Always upset. You always think I’m cheating!”
Antonio picked me up. Wendy absent.
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