Copyright 2018 by Colleen Hoover

He’s going to cry?
He had never cried for me. Over me. About me.
Maybe we haven’t fought enough.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I whispered. I didn’t have to go, I just needed
to get away from him and all the love he was aiming in every direction but mine.
He kissed me, and when I climbed off the bed, he rolled over, his back to me,
and forgot we’d never even finished fucking.
He fell asleep while I was in the bathroom, attempting to abort his daughters
with a wire hanger. I tried for half an hour, until my stomach started to cramp
and blood was running down my leg. I was certain more would follow.
I climbed into bed, waiting for the miscarriage. My arms were shaking. My
legs were numb from the squatting. My stomach hurt and I wanted to puke, but I
didn’t move because I wanted to be in the bed with him when it happened. I
wanted to wake him up, frantic, and show him the blood. I wanted him to panic,
to worry, to feel bad for me, to cry for me.
To cry for me.

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I drop the last page of the chapter.
It flutters to the polished wood floor and disappears under the desk, like its
trying to get away from me. I immediately drop to my knees, searching for it,
arranging it back into the pile of pages I’m determined to hide. I’m… I don’t
even…
I’m still on my knees in the middle of Verity’s office when the tears come.
They don’t spill; I hold them off with deep breaths, focusing on the grinding
pain in my knees to distract my thoughts. I don’t even know if it’s sadness or
anger. I only know this was written by a very disturbed woman—a woman
whose house I currently inhabit. Slowly, I lift my head until my eyes are fixed to
the ceiling. She’s there right now, on the second floor, sleeping, or eating, or
staring blankly into space. I can feel her lurking, disapproving of my presence.
Suddenly, I know, without a doubt, that it’s true.
A mother wouldn’t write that about herself—about her daughters—if it
weren’t the truth. A mother who never had those feelings or thoughts would
never even dream of them. I don’t care how good of a writer Verity is; she
would never compromise herself as a mother by writing something so horrid if
she didn’t actually experience that.
My mind begins to spin with worry, sadness, fear. If she did that—if she
actually tried to take their lives over a streak of maternal jealousy—what else
was she capable of?
What actually happened to those girls?
After a while of processing it, I put the manuscript in a drawer, beneath a
slew of other things. I don’t ever want Jeremy to come across that. And before I
leave here, I will destroy it. I can’t imagine how he would feel if he read that.
He’s already grieving the deaths of his daughters. Imagine if he knew what they
endured at the hands of their own mother.
I pray she was a better mother after they were born, but I’m honestly too
shaken to continue reading. I’m not sure if I want to read more at all.
I want a drink. Not water or soda or fruit juice. I walk to the kitchen and

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open the refrigerator, but there’s no wine. I open the cabinets above the
refrigerator, but there’s no liquor. I open the cabinet below the sink and it’s bare.
I open the refrigerator again, but all I see are small boxes of fruit juice for Crew
and bottles of water that aren’t going to help me shake this feeling.
“Are you okay?”
I spin around, and Jeremy is sitting at the dining room table with papers
strewn out in front of him. He looks concerned for me.
“Do you have anything alcoholic at all in the house?” I plant my hands
firmly on my hips, attempting to hide the trembling in my fingers. He has no