She was on top of her career and he had been visiting someone secretly. She knew he did. He knew she did. They did not have any arguments anymore, just a cold exchange of dialogues followed by the customary round of cold sex.
That night was no different. Under a ceiling, under a quilt, with two pillows and two bedside lamps, the two wept to sleep for two different reasons — She wanted to know about the third one in their marriage, and he wanted a third one in their marriage.
Waking up to find him dead in bed was certainly a setback for her.
Three hours later, she found herself not crying for her loss, but praying to God for not making her bleed this time. Ten days later, she found a tiny red spot in her lingerie and hoped, against all hopes, that what she was sure would happen wouldn’t happen.
Next morning, she collapsed in the bathroom. That one moment changed everything she ever believed in.
The pill did its job perfectly while God reserved himself for miracles. This time, she howled in grief.
The third one no longer mattered. A third one will never happen.
That morning, three people died in that house.