A Flashing Screen
Later, when the surgeons had done what they could and Sophie lay under sedation for hours, I sat in the waiting room like an old statue, hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee gone cold. The nursery attendant pushed a small bassinet into the corner — a fragile bundle with a face the size of my palm, hooked up to wires and tubes and a steady beep that somehow sounded like hope.
Sophie’s phone sat on a nearby chair, screen still on, waiting for someone to answer. I picked it up almost without thinking. The lock screen was open. And then I saw the photos.
There was Ryan — laughing against the sun on the deck of a yacht, a woman in a bright red swimsuit pressed against him. Fireworks painted the night behind them in one picture; in another he was on one knee, a small box extended and a grin full of champagne and promises. The captions were cruelly casual: “New beginnings,” “Mine now,” “Your husband belongs to us.”
My chest emptied like someone had taken out the air. Every instinct told me to burn the phone on the spot. Instead I saved the images, the messages, the receipts. I printed them. I put them in an envelope and then I called Robert.
