Dominic put the appointment card beside my coffee as if it were a receipt we needed to file. The clinic name was familiar, but the time beneath it was not. Thursday, eight fifteen. He had already asked his manager for the morning off and arranged a car. I was seven weeks pregnant, still carrying the test in my coat pocket because saying the words aloud made the kitchen seem too small. He said we both knew we were not ready, then pushed the card closer.
I asked why he had scheduled anything without me. He said a consultation was not a decision, although every sentence that followed described the decision he expected. We had just renewed our lease. His architecture exam was in six months. My ceramics classes barely covered their own clay. He listed facts until they became a wall, then said love sometimes meant choosing the sensible door before it closed. I heard fear beneath his certainty, but fear did not give him my signature.
That evening, I called the clinic from my parked car. The receptionist confirmed Dominic had booked using my date of birth and phone number. She canceled the slot, flagged my record, and offered an options-counseling appointment under a private code. She explained that no outcome would be assumed and I could attend alone. I took the Friday time. I wanted medical facts, room to think, and one conversation that did not begin with Dominic's conclusion.
When I told him, his face emptied. He asked whether I was planning to keep the pregnancy. I said I was planning to make my own informed choice. He slept on the sofa and left before dawn. On Thursday morning, the time printed on his card, a reminder chimed from his tablet. I reached to silence it and saw an email preview from our landlord: Dominic had asked how quickly his name could be removed from the lease.