“Yes.”
“And the reason was…”
She meets my eyes.
“You.”
The word is simple.
Brutally simple.
I blink.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “That’s not exactly the explanation I was hoping for.”
“You asked for the truth.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Apparently I did.”
She looks exhausted.
More exhausted than I’ve ever seen her.
“I found out I was pregnant two weeks after I left,” she says quietly.
The timeline clicks into place with uncomfortable precision.
“You could’ve told me.”
“I thought about it.”
“And?”
She hesitates.
The hesitation is enough to make my stomach tighten.
“And I realized something.”
“What?”
“That you weren’t ready.”
The words are gentle.
But they still cut.
“I wasn’t ready,” I repeat slowly.
“No.”
“You decided that on your own.”
“Yes.”
I laugh again, softer this time.
“That’s impressive efficiency.”
