The 99th Time He Gave Up on Me

Emma's POV

The pain hit me like a lightning bolt at 5 AM, ripping through my abdomen with such intensity that I doubled over in couch, clutching my stomach. Jesus, what is this? The darkness of our room felt suffocating, broken only by the weak glow of my phone screen as I fumbled for it with trembling fingers.

I couldn't breathe properly. Each wave of pain made me want to scream, but I bit down on my lip instead. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth as I scrolled through my contacts with shaking hands. Ryan. I needed Ryan.

My finger hovered over his number. Please pick up. Please.

"Emma?" His voice was groggy, distant. I could hear background noise, beeping machines, muffled voices.

"Ryan, I'm in so much pain. My stomach... I can't..." I gasped, curling tighter into myself. "Can you come home? I think I need to go to the hospital."

Silence. Then I heard a woman's voice in the background. Sophia's voice.

"Sophia's heart is acting up again," Ryan said, his tone shifting from sleepy to concerned. But not concerned for me. "She said she only trusts me to handle her care. Can you take some painkillers? I can't leave a patient right now."

A patient.

"Ryan, please. I've never felt pain like this before—"

"Emma, you know I can't abandon someone who needs medical attention. Sophia's condition is serious. Just take some ibuprofen and try to sleep, okay? I'll be home in the morning."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, the screen casting shadows on my tear-streaked face. He hung up on me. On my birthday. On the night I turned thirty and spent it alone, waiting for him to come home to cold dinner and melted cake.

With fingers that wouldn't stop shaking, I opened my phone's notes app. The list was already there, waiting for me like an old, cruel friend.

Times Ryan chose Sophia over me: 97

I typed the number with deliberate slowness. Ninety-seven. The pain in my stomach was nothing compared to the ache in my chest as I added tonight to my tally.

Ninety-seven times he's chosen her.

Earlier tonight felt like a lifetime ago. I had rushed home from work at five-thirty, my heart racing with excitement. Thirty candles. I had bought exactly thirty candles for my cake, a small chocolate one from the bakery down the street, nothing fancy, but it was mine. My birthday cake.

I had transformed our dining room into something magical. Soft jazz playing from the speakers, the good china we only used for special occasions, and flowers I'd splurged on despite our tight budget. The red dress Ryan loved hung in the closet, waiting. I had even practiced my smile in the bathroom mirror.

"Happy thirtieth birthday to me," I whispered to my reflection, adjusting the thin straps. Ryan's going to love tonight. He has to.

I lit the candles one by one, watching the warm glow fill the room. The champagne was chilling. The pasta was perfect, his favorite carbonara, made from scratch the way his mom taught me. Everything was ready.

All I needed was him.

Eight o'clock came and went. Then nine. Ten.

I sat at our dining table, watching the candles burn lower, the wax pooling onto the tablecloth. The pasta grew cold and congealed. The champagne lost its fizz. My feet hurt in the heels I'd worn just for him.

Maybe traffic is bad. Maybe he got caught up with a difficult case. Maybe he's planning a surprise.

But deep down, I knew. The same sick feeling I'd had ninety-six times before settled in my stomach like a stone. He wasn't coming. Not tonight. Not for me.

At eleven-thirty, I finally gave up. I kicked off my heels and walked to the cake, my bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. Thirty little flames flickered before me, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"Make a wish," I whispered to myself.

I wish Ryan would choose me. Just once. Just tonight.

I blew out all thirty candles in one breath, but it felt more like surrendering than celebrating. The room plunged into darkness, and I fumbled for the light switch. In the harsh kitchen lighting, everything looked different. Pathetic. The melted candles, the ruined dinner, the unopened champagne.

I cut myself a piece of cake anyway. The chocolate was too sweet, but I ate it standing at the counter, still wearing my red dress, mascara probably smudged under my eyes. 

"Happy birthday, Emma," I said to the empty room. "At least you still have yourself."

But do I really?

At three in the morning, just as I was finally drifting off on the couch, I couldn't bear to sleep in our bed, not tonight, my phone buzzed.

Ryan: Sophia's stable now. Sorry about tonight, babe. I'll make it up to you tomorrow. Happy birthday.

I stared at the message until the words blurred. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Always later. Always after Sophia.

My fingers moved before I could stop them.

Me: Don't bother. I already celebrated.

I didn't wait for his response. I turned my phone face down and pulled the throw pillow over my head, but sleep wouldn't come. Instead, my mind started cycling through the memories I'd tried so hard to forget.

The first time was two years ago. Our anniversary dinner. Sophia called with chest pains, and Ryan left me sitting alone at our table for two.

The second time was my work promotion celebration. Sophia's anxiety attack.

The third time was Christmas morning. Sophia's panic attack about being alone on the holidays.

The fourth...

The fifth...

All the way to ninety-seven.

Each time, I told myself it was just his job. He was a good doctor. A caring person. That's why I fell in love with him in the first place. But somewhere along the way, his care for Sophia had become something else. Something that pushed me further and further into the background of my own life.

I curled up tighter on the couch, my stomach still aching, my heart feeling hollow. Tomorrow, Ryan would come home with flowers and apologies. He'd explain how Sophia needed him, how he couldn't abandon a patient, how he'd make it up to me.

And I'd forgive him. Again.

Because that's what I always did. That's what I'd done ninety-six times before.

But as I lay there in the darkness of what should have been the best birthday of my life, something felt different. Maybe it was turning thirty. Maybe it was the pain still radiating through my abdomen. Or maybe it was just the weight of ninety-seven disappointments finally becoming too heavy to carry.