For one month, that was all you allowed.
Messages.
Doctor updates.
Practical support.
No romance.
No promises.
No visits.
Gideon paid for medical care through a private account. He sent groceries once a week, always through a delivery service, never with notes that made you feel owned. He asked before every appointment if you wanted him there.
You always said no.
Then one evening, you arrived for your cleaning shift and found your ID badge disabled.
Security called Marlene.
Marlene came down looking satisfied.
“Budget cuts,” she said.
You stared at her.
“What?”
“Your contract ended.”
“Nobody told me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
You looked past her toward the elevators.
Your stomach twisted with more than morning sickness.
“Is this because—”
“Because what?” Marlene asked sharply.
Her eyes dropped to your stomach.
Not showing yet.
But she knew.
“You were temporary,” she said. “Don’t make it dramatic.”
You left the building carrying your cleaning shoes in a plastic bag.
Rain hit your face outside.
You stood under the awning, suddenly unemployed, pregnant, and furious at yourself for thinking life might let you breathe.
Your phone buzzed.
Gideon.
You did not answer.
Then a black SUV pulled up.
The driver rolled down the window.
“Ms. Akinwale? Mr. Okoro asked me to wait in case you needed a ride.”
That made the rage worse.
