I was sitting on the worn-out recliner in our small living room, the soft hum of the baby monitor filling the quiet morning air.
At eight months pregnant, the days had slowed, but my mind never did.
Then the call came—an ordinary ring that shattered everything.
“Your husband is in the hospital. He wasn’t alone,” the voice said with an urgency that didn’t match the casual way I’d imagined emergencies.
I remember the feeling of my heart stalling, the world narrowing to the voice on the phone.
My thoughts tangled, questions unspoken, as I tried to process the words.
It was as if reality skewed sideways, leaving me grasping at the edges for balance.
The baby kicked softly, a reminder of the life we were supposed to be building.
Each movement a silent plea to hold it all together, to stay calm.
The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as I hung up, my mind racing.
