The Woman I Never Forgot
Before Celeste, there was Maren Caldwell.
She didn’t care about money. When we met, my office was a rented space with uneven floors and broken heating; she brought me coffee at midnight, fixed my presentation slides, and reminded me to eat. She had warm brown eyes, a quiet wit, and made ordinary rooms feel like home.
We married before the jets, before the headlines. For years we were happy — until we tried to start a family. Month after month, clinic after clinic, no good news. Maren endured every test, every disappointment, then squeezed my hand and said: “We are still us, Adrian.”
Then doubt crept in — from my mother, who hinted the problem might be Maren’s; from Celeste, then a close friend, who said I should prepare for the truth.
I should have defended her. Instead, I let suspicion take root.
