Not taking my eyes off her stomach, I reply, “You’re showing?”

Brooke pulls her sweater over her stomach, and I lift my eyes to her face in time to see her blush. “Yeah. It just kind of appeared.”

I nod and the conversation dies out. Brooke stands there awkwardly. We have not seen each other since that night. “I hate you. I hate you.”

I clear my throat and rub at the phantom feeling of her tiny fist beating against my chest. “Are you going to sit down?” I ask, making her blush again.

“Oh yeah, of course,” she hastily took a seat. The table was abundant with food as usual. Eggs, fruit, bacon, sausage. But per usual, Brooke just butters herself some toast and smears it with raspberry jam.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

Brooke’s eyes meet mine for a brief second. They seemed almost shocked that I asked that question. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” We went back to eating in silence. “And your morning sickness, has that passed yet?”

“No.”

“Have you been doing what the doctor told your to, and are you taking your vitamins?”

“What is this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why are you suddenly asking me these questions?”

“I can’t ask after your health?”

“You never have before.”

“Before what? You’re my wife why shouldn’t I ask about your health?”

“I’m not your wife and before I was pregnant.”

Anger boiled in me. “You are my wife. I have the documents to prove it.”

“You know what I meant.”

“No, actually, I don’t. Please enlighten me. What did you mean?”

“Just that this marriage isn’t really… It’s…” I raise an eyebrow as she stumbles over her words. “It’s more of a…contract.”

The last word was said very quietly and without confidence. Almost as though she was questioning it. I clench my jaw in anger.

“You’re right, and according to our contract,” I put in as much disgust to the word as I can, “I own you and have a right to inquire after what’s mine.”

Her cheeks turn red with anger. “Not for much longer.”

“I wouldn’t give my hopes up if I were you, we could be having a girl,” I sneer. It’s then that I remember my ludicrous thoughts from the ultrasound. I secretly wanted a girl. I have not allowed myself to think about it, pick it apart, and analyze it. It did not make sense, and if it meant what I thought it meant, I did not want to admit it—not even to myself.

Brooke goes as pale as a ghost just then. I guess the thought had not crossed her mind before.

“We have to have a boy in order to end this marriage?” she asks, which confuses the hell out of me.

“You wrote the contract, Brooke; I think you should know that.”

She glances down at the table were her hands are resting. They’re shaking. She pulls them under the table. “I didn’t write the contract.”