SOMETHING SWEET, SOMETHING GONE (Lisa's Story) - Chapter 3 : Blood, Bruises, and Buttercream

I had always imagined pregnancy would feel like floating—light, magical, almost holy. But that morning, as I stood in the tiny bakery bathroom with shaky hands holding a positive test, I didn’t feel holy.

I felt terrified.

I waited until Daniel got home late—again. His shirt was untucked, his lips tasted like whiskey, and his eyes were glassy, but the moment I told him, he sobered up fast.

“You're pregnant?” he asked, staring blankly at me.

I nodded, smiling nervously. “I thought we’d be happy…”

He didn’t say anything. Just stared. Then turned and walked out.

He was gone all night.

When he came back the next day, he said nothing. No apology. No excitement. No mention of the baby. We worked side by side, silent, kneading dough as if nothing had changed—except everything had.

The pregnancy was rough. Nausea hit hard. My back ached. I was always exhausted. But I still showed up in the bakery every day, because the orders didn’t stop—and Daniel wouldn’t let me.

He grew distant, distracted. Took more “meetings” alone. One night, I saw a text pop up on his phone from someone named Gloria (Supplier).

Gloria: Can’t stop thinking about last night… you still taste like vanilla frosting 😏.

My heart dropped.

I didn’t say a word. I just walked into the kitchen and started baking. That was my shield—my coping mechanism. But the butter wouldn’t blend, the flour felt heavy, and my tears mixed into the batter.

I confronted him later. Quietly. Not in anger—just in pain.

He exploded.

“Why are you snooping through my phone? You don’t trust me? You think this baby gives you the right to police me?”

I was stunned.

“It’s not about trust, Daniel. It’s about respect. About us.”

That night was the first time he shoved me.

Just one sharp push against the counter. My shoulder hit the edge hard. He stared at me like even he didn’t recognize himself.

“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered, walking out.

But the damage was already done.

The next day, I started bleeding.

The miscarriage was quiet, bloody, and cruel. No dramatic moment. Just pain and stillness. I held my lower belly and sobbed in the bakery bathroom while customers waited outside for birthday cakes.

Daniel didn’t come to the hospital. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He said nothing at all.

When I got back home, he was making dinner like nothing had happened.

“I didn’t want a kid anyway,” he said coldly. “We’re not ready. This business isn’t ready.”

I looked at him like he was a stranger. Because, in that moment, he was.

Still, I stayed. I told myself it was grief. Stress. That he didn’t mean it. That we’d get past this.

But the bakery that once felt like a dream now felt like a prison. The ovens hissed like whispers. The frosting no longer danced on my tongue.

Daniel was always on his phone now. Always out late. And when he came back, he’d smell like a woman’s perfume I could never find in any store shelf.

Gloria.

He tried to hide it, but not well.

One night, I stayed late at the bakery—pretending to finish an order. I watched him through the half-closed glass door as he pulled up in a sleek car, laughing with her in the passenger seat.

She kissed his neck before he walked in.

He wiped her lipstick off with the back of his hand like it was nothing.

He didn’t know I saw.

That night, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just stood in the walk-in fridge, letting the cold numb my body.

In the dark, I whispered to myself:

Something sweet is gone.