Chapter 5

I stared at the sent encrypted email—the confession of my pregnancy to the Reykjavik Institute. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Almost subconsciously, I placed a hand on my stomach, as if to reassure us both.

The director replied within hours:

"Congratulations on starting a new chapter of your life! We have prepared a family apartment just steps away from the Polar Ecology Lab. Dr. Siegel's wife, our head midwife, has personally booked all your prenatal checkups. Most importantly—we are sending a team member to meet you at the airport exit and take you straight to your new home. No luggage hauling, no queues, no stress!"

I stared at the screen. No hesitation. No judgment. Only support. Something tightened in my chest—this was perhaps the first genuine hope I had felt since seeing those two red lines.

On the day of departure, I stood nervously at the arrivals gate of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, scanning the crowd for the institute's contact. A voice called out—"Elena?"

I turned to see a lanky man with gentle eyes squeezing through the crowd. Eric, according to his badge. He greeted me warmly, instantly putting me at ease. He took my single suitcase with care, as if transporting a precious botanical specimen. "Priority boarding is ready," he smiled. "The director insisted on giving our star botanist the VIP treatment."

Just as Eric led me toward the security checkpoint, his shoulder momentarily blocked my view of the area near the First Class lounge—where a commotion was unfolding. Alexander was standing there, Isabella clinging tightly to his arm, both their backs to us as they greeted a group of investors from Silicon Valley.

In that instant, Alexander froze.

"Did someone just call for Elena?"

Isabella's bell-like laughter bounced back. "Don't be ridiculous, Alex. Elena is surely buried in the greenhouse mud right now." Saying this, Isabella pulled Alexander toward the champagne reception.

Before his gaze could sweep our way, we had already vanished into the teeming crowd.

As we walked toward the boarding gate, Eric described the lab's new spectral analyzer with animated eyebrows. "Dr. Siegel installed it specifically for your moss research," he said, his eyes sparkling with that academic passion I had almost forgotten.

He adjusted his grip on my suitcase. "Oh, and the team voted unanimously to adopt your preferred schedule—no meetings before 9 AM, and absolutely no overtime at night."

I pressed a hand to my chest. These people I had never met understood the effort to anticipate my needs better than Alexander had in three years of marriage.

At the gate, Eric handed me a stack of postcards—landscapes of Hallgrímskirkja and the Aurora Borealis. "For writing home," he nodded encouragingly.

The recycling bin swallowed them whole.

Eric blinked. "No one to write to?"

I looked back at the terminal's floor-to-ceiling windows, Seattle's grey skyline defined sharply in the misty rain. Somewhere out there, Alexander was probably sipping espresso while reviewing Isabella's latest checkup report, her hand, adorned with a Cartier bracelet, resting on his arm.

"Not anymore," I said, turning toward the gate.

The plane roared to life beneath us. Eric chattered on about Iceland's hot springs—"The minerals in the Blue Lagoon! You'll think you're soaking in clouds!"—while I pressed my hand against the porthole.

Goodbye, to the holographic images where only one person was smiling.

Goodbye, to the glass mansion that never felt like home.

Goodbye, Alexander.