I came home from my final ultrasound to find my belongings packed in garbage bags on the front lawn. My husband stood in the doorway with his

That was his first mistake.

I stepped toward the door. “Move.”

Marla smiled. “Careful, Claire. Stress is bad for the baby.”

I tried to push past them.

Her foot slid out.

I remember the sky spinning. The railing flashing past. My body hitting the steps, then the concrete path below. Pain exploded through my belly, white and merciless.

“Evan,” I gasped.

He looked down at me.

Marla whispered, “Shut the door.”

And he did.

When I woke, I was under hospital lights.

My father stood beside the bed in his old judge’s suit, his face gray with rage. My best friend Nadia, a criminal defense attorney, held my hand.

“The baby?” I croaked.

Nadia squeezed my fingers. “Stable. You both are.”

I started to cry then, quietly, carefully, because even grief hurt.

My father leaned close.