Five Years as Spare Parts

After my miscarriage, my abdomen felt like it had been crushed by a truck.

My husband William walked in wearing his white coat.

He pulled off his gloves while coldly informing me:

"It's good this baby's gone. Now we can remove part of your uterus and transplant it to Juliet."

I thought I'd misheard. I weakly asked:

"What did you say? Who's Juliet?"

His eyes held no warmth, as if looking at an organ container:

"My first love. She has congenital underdeveloped uterus and can't be a mother. You have a good constitution. We won't be having children anyway, so you might as well help her out.