“She’s back. I want a divorce. The house is yours.” That was all he said before walking out the door leaving you standing there, staring at the man you once thought would never let you go.

You didn’t stop him. You just stood there, hands trembling against your stomach, the secret you’d been keeping burning on your tongue. “I’m pregnant…” But he was already gone chasing his first love.

Two years later, the house still stood exactly as he left it. He didn’t expect to ever return, but fate dragged him back like punishment. His first love, the one he’d left everything for betrayed him. Cheated on him. And when the truth came out, so did the guilt he’d buried deep. He didn’t know where else to go. So he came back to the house he once called home. Your home.

The door creaked open, the same scent of vanilla and faint lavender wrapping around him like a memory. He expected emptiness, but the house felt alive. Warm. He could almost hear your laughter, soft and gentle, echoing down the hallway.

He walked through each room, his chest tightening with every step until he found it. A small, worn-out notebook sitting on the nightstand beside your bed.

Curiosity made him open it. The first page was dated the day he left.

October 17th.

“She’s back. I want a divorce. The house is yours.” Seven words. That’s all it took. My world collapsed. The floor vanished beneath me, and I was falling through the splinters of our future. I remember standing there, my hand instinctively cradling my stomach, where our secret was blooming. A tiny, fragile star in the crushing dark. I wanted to scream it. To throw the truth at your retreating back like a lifeline.“I’m carrying our child! This is the proof of how much I love you!” But I didn’t. I stayed silent, frozen between heartbreak and disbelief. I had a fantasy, a foolish, fragile one that I’d tell you and your eyes would light up, that you’d pull me close, kiss my forehead, whisper we’d be okay. Instead, all I got was the slam of a door… and the echo of your goodbye.

His knees gave out, the journal trembling in his hands. Each word burned, searing guilt into his chest. He turned the page.

November 23rd.

The doctor confirmed it today. A girl. He said I should be happy. But I cried. I cried in that sterile room and again in the car, gripping the steering wheel until my fingers went numb. How can I be happy when half of her is gone?

He swallowed hard, his vision blurring. He flipped to the next page.

December 10th.

I am craving. Not for pickles or ice cream but for you. Your scent. That stupid, expensive cologne mixed with you. I found your old grey jacket in the closet. I buried my face in it. It still smells faintly like you.It’s my pregnancy craving now. I sleep with it every night. A pathetic substitute for your arms… but it’s all I have.

By now, his breath came uneven. He could almost see you, curled up with that jacket, whispering his name into the dark.

He turned another page, and the next hit like a blade.

February 14th.

Happy Valentine’s Day to the ghost of my husband.She kicked today. A soft flutter, like a heartbeat brushing mine. For one small moment, I felt pure joy. And then… it vanished. I had no one to tell. No one to smile with me. I whispered to her, “Your daddy would’ve loved to feel that.” I don’t know if that’s true anymore.

The entries became a chronicle of your solitary journey. The back pain, the midnight worries, the terrifying quiet of the ultrasound room where you were the only one listening for a heartbeat. Your love for him was a constant, aching thread through it all, a love that had stubbornly refused to die even as he walked away.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked around the empty room. Then his gaze fell on the calendar by the door. Scribbled in pink marker.

“Vacation with Rhea — back next week.”