sordid antonym

The day I miscarried and hemorrhaged, I received the news that my parents had been in a chain-reaction car crash on their way to see me in New York City. Lying on a cold gurney, drenched in blood, I signed my name on their surgical consent forms. In the end, I couldn't save my baby, and I couldn't save my parents. Meanwhile, my husband, Eduardo, whose phone I had called countless times with no answer, was gushing on Instagram. He’d posted an intimate photo of him and Cassie under the flash of cameras, captioned: "So proud of you, Cassie. Tonight belongs to you." After I liked the post with a trembling finger, he immediately texted me, his words a sharp command: "Delete it. Now." I sent him the hospital's location. "Come to the hospital. There's something I need to tell you in person." "I have an important dinner I can't leave! Just have your parents go with you to the prenatal check-up. They're coming over from Boston anyway." "Is your 'important business' Cassie's charity gala?" "Is this pregnancy making you paranoid? You're jealous of a charity event?" I didn't have the strength to argue. Since he wasn't coming, he could talk to my lawyer.