Those three little words from my wife destroyed me:
“We’re keeping it.”
My heart pumped painful shots of blood to my temples and the living room became a blurry, funhouse-mirror kaleidoscope. I lost my balance and crumbled to my knees, head in hands, palms drenched with tears while my inner ear blasted a chaotic symphony of swirling white noise, out-of-tune trumpets, screeching brakes and clanging bells.
Carmen’s bitchy tone cut through the fog: “You can figure out what to tell everyone. I really don’t give a shit. Jamal and I had a long talk and we’re keeping the baby. Period. We’ll deal with whatever comes next, but we’re keeping it. If you want a divorce, fine.”
I swabbed my tongue along the roof of my mouth trying to work up enough saliva to formulate words. All I could eke out was a single squeaky syllable: “Nnnoooo.”
My wife’s green eyes melted me. “You’re pathetic, Eddie. You know that? Fucking pathetic.”
“I-I … uh …”
Without another word, Carmen scooped up her purse, flipped her hair and breezed out the front door.
My tears formed two expanding dark spots on the carpet as I remained on my knees for a good 20 minutes watching the puddles grow. I finally managed to struggle to my feet, stumble to the couch and flop down, curling up in the fetal position.
I shivered and cried on the sofa for the rest of the night and well into the next day, not even getting up to use the bathroom. Luckily, it was Saturday; there was no way I could bring myself to even pick up the phone to call in sick, let alone think about going into the office.
It was getting on 2 pm when I finally rose from the couch. My legs wobbled as I made my way to the bathroom, and the simple act of pulling my dick out to pee was difficult because my hands were shaking so profusely. After relieving myself, I glanced in the mirror but averted my eyes, unable to face my reflection, fearful of what I might see.
Although I wasn’t hungry, I forced myself to fix something. I managed to pop two pieces of bread into the toaster with my shaking hands although I kept dropping the butter knife, so I used my forefinger to spread the butter on the toast before sucking the digit clean. I was afraid I’d drop the juice container or milk carton and spill shit everywhere, so I turned on the faucet with my wrist and scooped water into my mouth with my cupped, trembling hands.
I then wandered to the living room and back to the couch, where I remained curled up for the rest of the weekend, crying the tears of a sad, lonely, confused cuckold simp.
////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\
I dialed the first 6 digits of her phone number — 647-432 — before losing my nerve.
She’d never stayed gone so long. Five days.
After staring at my cellphone for an hour I redialed: 647-43 — making it only 5 numbers on my second try before chickening out again.
Steeling myself, I managed to compose a text:
I’m sorry to bother you but I’m really getting worried. Please let me know that you’re OK
It took 20 minutes to muster the courage to push the send button. Then I sat there for the next 2 hours watching the phone like a sap, waiting for a response that never came.
My heart guided my thumbs as I tapped out another text:
Carmen, I’m so sorry for the way I reacted, and I’m sorry if I insulted you in any way. It was just a shock, but you know I will support you in anything you do. I really am trying to give you the space you need to develop your relationship with Jamal so that we can keep our marriage together like we discussed. When you first told me about him it was a shock too, remember? I’m only human. But I promised I would be supportive, and you have to admit I have been. I understand that you want to keep the baby and I promise I will be supportive of that decision, too. It can all work out. The last thing I want is to stand in the way of your happiness, and I hope you know that I will do whatever it takes to keep this together. I’m so sorry to bother you right now but I just need to know that you’re OK and then I’ll leave you alone. Please just let me know that you’re OK. I love you so much
I fell asleep clutching the phone to my chest.
Over the next 2 days I sent another half-dozen unanswered texts, and finally found the balls to dial her number, only to have the calls keep going straight to voicemail. I left 3 whiny messages before deciding it was futile.
On Friday night, a full week after I’d last heard from my wife, I sent her another text:
Sorry, but since I haven’t heard from you for a whole week, I’m going to call the police to report you missing
Within a minute my phone dinged:
Don’t call the cops asshole I’m fine will come home when I’m ready
My heart leapt. I texted her back:
I’m so glad you’re OK. I’ve been worried sick. See you when you get home. There’ll be a cherry cheesecake waiting for you in the fridge
She didn’t respond. I didn’t expect her to but I stared at my phone anyway, feeling like a pathetic loser, but also relieved that my Carmen was safe.
Safe in her boyfriend’s arms.
With their love child growing in her womb.
I cried myself to sleep. Again.
“We’re keeping it.”
My heart pumped painful shots of blood to my temples and the living room became a blurry, funhouse-mirror kaleidoscope. I lost my balance and crumbled to my knees, head in hands, palms drenched with tears while my inner ear blasted a chaotic symphony of swirling white noise, out-of-tune trumpets, screeching brakes and clanging bells.
Carmen’s bitchy tone cut through the fog: “You can figure out what to tell everyone. I really don’t give a shit. Jamal and I had a long talk and we’re keeping the baby. Period. We’ll deal with whatever comes next, but we’re keeping it. If you want a divorce, fine.”
I swabbed my tongue along the roof of my mouth trying to work up enough saliva to formulate words. All I could eke out was a single squeaky syllable: “Nnnoooo.”
My wife’s green eyes melted me. “You’re pathetic, Eddie. You know that? Fucking pathetic.”
“I-I … uh …”
Without another word, Carmen scooped up her purse, flipped her hair and breezed out the front door.
My tears formed two expanding dark spots on the carpet as I remained on my knees for a good 20 minutes watching the puddles grow. I finally managed to struggle to my feet, stumble to the couch and flop down, curling up in the fetal position.
I shivered and cried on the sofa for the rest of the night and well into the next day, not even getting up to use the bathroom. Luckily, it was Saturday; there was no way I could bring myself to even pick up the phone to call in sick, let alone think about going into the office.
It was getting on 2 pm when I finally rose from the couch. My legs wobbled as I made my way to the bathroom, and the simple act of pulling my dick out to pee was difficult because my hands were shaking so profusely. After relieving myself, I glanced in the mirror but averted my eyes, unable to face my reflection, fearful of what I might see.
Although I wasn’t hungry, I forced myself to fix something. I managed to pop two pieces of bread into the toaster with my shaking hands although I kept dropping the butter knife, so I used my forefinger to spread the butter on the toast before sucking the digit clean. I was afraid I’d drop the juice container or milk carton and spill shit everywhere, so I turned on the faucet with my wrist and scooped water into my mouth with my cupped, trembling hands.
I then wandered to the living room and back to the couch, where I remained curled up for the rest of the weekend, crying the tears of a sad, lonely, confused cuckold simp.
////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\
I dialed the first 6 digits of her phone number — 647-432 — before losing my nerve.
She’d never stayed gone so long. Five days.
After staring at my cellphone for an hour I redialed: 647-43 — making it only 5 numbers on my second try before chickening out again.
Steeling myself, I managed to compose a text:
I’m sorry to bother you but I’m really getting worried. Please let me know that you’re OK
It took 20 minutes to muster the courage to push the send button. Then I sat there for the next 2 hours watching the phone like a sap, waiting for a response that never came.
My heart guided my thumbs as I tapped out another text:
Carmen, I’m so sorry for the way I reacted, and I’m sorry if I insulted you in any way. It was just a shock, but you know I will support you in anything you do. I really am trying to give you the space you need to develop your relationship with Jamal so that we can keep our marriage together like we discussed. When you first told me about him it was a shock too, remember? I’m only human. But I promised I would be supportive, and you have to admit I have been. I understand that you want to keep the baby and I promise I will be supportive of that decision, too. It can all work out. The last thing I want is to stand in the way of your happiness, and I hope you know that I will do whatever it takes to keep this together. I’m so sorry to bother you right now but I just need to know that you’re OK and then I’ll leave you alone. Please just let me know that you’re OK. I love you so much
I fell asleep clutching the phone to my chest.
////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\////\\\\
Over the next 2 days I sent another half-dozen unanswered texts, and finally found the balls to dial her number, only to have the calls keep going straight to voicemail. I left 3 whiny messages before deciding it was futile.
On Friday night, a full week after I’d last heard from my wife, I sent her another text:
Sorry, but since I haven’t heard from you for a whole week, I’m going to call the police to report you missing
Within a minute my phone dinged:
Don’t call the cops asshole I’m fine will come home when I’m ready
My heart leapt. I texted her back:
I’m so glad you’re OK. I’ve been worried sick. See you when you get home. There’ll be a cherry cheesecake waiting for you in the fridge
She didn’t respond. I didn’t expect her to but I stared at my phone anyway, feeling like a pathetic loser, but also relieved that my Carmen was safe.
Safe in her boyfriend’s arms.
With their love child growing in her womb.
I cried myself to sleep. Again.
