At 2:07 in the morning, I reached across our bed and discovered my husband's side was cold.

Thursday passed in an eerie, underwater hush.

Jake slept in his office with the door shut. I lay alone in our king-sized bed, surrounded by the three body pillows I needed to prop up my hips and belly, staring at the ceiling fan cutting circles through the dark. Theo rolled fitfully beneath my ribs, kicking out toward my bladder with sudden, jarring intensity. Every twinge made my heart hammer against my throat.

*Stay put, baby,* I whispered into the darkness, pressing both hands against my stomach. *Please just stay put. Don't come while he’s like this. Don't come into a house that’s burning down.*

At 5:15 on Friday morning, the floorboards in the hallway groaned.

I didn't move. I kept my eyes closed, listening to the small, betraying sounds of a man trying to be invisible while doing something shameful. The click of the refrigerator door. The metallic rattle of his keys. The scrape of his duffel bag being hauled across the hardwood.

I threw off the heavy duvet and hauled myself upright, my feet hitting the cold floorboards. My joints ached, my knees stiff and swollen. I didn't bother with a robe. I shuffled out into the kitchen in an oversized gray nightshirt, my hair tangled around my shoulders.

Jake was standing by the kitchen island, pouring black coffee into a thermal travel mug. He wore his faded Patagonia jacket, dark jeans, and his hiking boots. When he saw me standing in the doorway, his hand shook slightly, splashing a few drops of hot coffee onto the quartz countertop.

He grabbed a paper towel and wiped it up immediately, keeping his gaze down. "You didn't need to get up."

"What time does Brad get here?" I asked.

"Ten minutes." He threw the paper towel in the trash. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "He’s driving the first leg. We’re taking I-70 west. We’re stopping in Moab tonight."

"Moab." I leaned against the doorframe because my lower back was throbbing with an electric, persistent dullness. "Where there’s zero cell service in half the canyons."

"We’re staying in a cabin in town. High-speed Wi-Fi. I’ll keep my phone on the nightstand." He zipped up his jacket, checking his pockets with mechanical, hurried pats. "I left two thousand dollars in the checking account for emergencies. My mom knows you’re alone. She said she can drop off groceries tomorrow afternoon."

The humiliation of it washed over me like ice water. "You called your mother? You told Eleanor you were leaving me thirty-seven weeks pregnant so you could go drink beer in the desert with your frat brothers?"

"I told her I had an urgent business and mental health trip," he flared up, his cheeks flushing crimson. "She understands that men need space before high-stress life transitions."

"Eleanor was divorced twice by the time she was thirty-five, Jake. Her advice on marriage is a biohazard."

Before he could answer, twin beams of high-intensity LED headlights swept across the blinds of our living room window. A deep, rumble of a lifted truck engine vibrated through our floorboards. A short, impatient honk shattered the dawn quiet of our cul-de-sac.

Brad was here.

Jake picked up his travel mug and his duffel bag. He walked toward me, his expression caught in a miserable, desperate crossfire between guilt and defiance. He stopped an arm’s length away, looking at my swollen belly, then up at my face.

"Kiss me goodbye, Maya," he said, his voice begging for absolution he hadn't earned. "Tell me we’re going to be okay."

I stood straight, folding my arms across my chest, feeling my son shift between us. "If you step outside that door, Jake, you are choosing a four-day drinking trip over being here for the birth of your first child. You are gambling with the most important moment of our lives. I will not kiss you goodbye. I will not give you permission to feel good about this."

He stared at me, his eyes wide, a flicker of genuine terror passing over his features. For two seconds, three seconds, I thought he might drop the bag. I thought the boy who had wept on the bathroom tile when the line turned pink would surface, tackle his demons, and throw that duffel bag into the closet.

Outside, Brad honked the horn again—two sharp, mocking blasts.

Jake’s jaw hardened. The fear receded, devoured entirely by pride and resentment. "I’ll see you next Sunday, Maya. Drink your water. Take your vitamins."

He opened the front door. The crisp, five-o'clock mountain air rushed in, smelling of pine needles, wet asphalt, and gasoline exhaust. Jake pulled the door shut behind him. The lock clicked into place with a mechanical finality that sounded like a gunshot.

I walked to the front window, peeling back one slat of the white blinds.

Through the glass, I watched him walk down our paved walkway. Brad’s black Toyota 4Runner sat idling at the curb, surfboards strapped to the roof, a mountain bike mounted on the hitch. In the passenger seat, Tyler was leaning out the window, laughing, holding a red thermos.

Jake tossed his duffel bag into the open trunk bed. Tyler leaned back and pounded Jake on the shoulder, hollering something I couldn't hear through the double-pane glass. Jake gave a tight, half-hearted grin, climbed into the back seat, and slammed the heavy door.

The 4Runner pulled away from the curb.

I watched the red taillights flare as Brad hit the brakes at the corner of our street. They lingered for half a second at the stop sign, then turned left onto the main boulevard, disappearing behind the neighbor’s tall spruce trees.

The street was dead empty.

I stood there by the window, the silence of the house pressing against my eardrums with unbearable weight. The refrigerator hummed. The grandfather clock in the foyer ticked—*one, two, three, four.*

Suddenly, a strange, hot sensation gripped my abdomen—not a flutter, not Theo kicking, but a hard, tightening vise that wrapped around my belly from the small of my back to my navel, holding its breath for forty-five seconds before slowly, reluctantly releasing its grip.

I clutched the windowsill, breathing through my teeth.