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Restricted

She always sent restricted numbers to voicemail. Always.

She wanted to drive herself to the clinic, but he insisted. She let him, since they wouldn’t let her drive after the procedure anyway.

There was a chill between them in the car. They had fought every day since the amnio came back. They had tried for so long — they knew that her “advanced maternal age” (what a load of crap, she had thought, I’m only 35) meant risk, but they were optimistic.

She stole a glance at him. He was crying as he drove. He had first begged, then screamed at her, called her a selfish bitch who just didn’t want the “inconvenience” of an imperfect baby. Then he said he’d leave if she chose to terminate.

His packed bags were in the trunk. He pulled up to admissions and she silently got out. Her phone rang – restricted. She sent it to voicemail as she walked through the doors.

She checked the message after it was over. His voice was light. “I know this is weird, but keep the baby, honey. They were wrong. Everything is okay.”

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