At eight months pregnant, I was already moving cautiously, counting every step and every breath. That morning my husband, Eric, was in one of his moods—the kind where every red light felt like an insult and every delay seemed like a personal attack. He was driving me to my prenatal appointment before heading to work, one hand on the steering wheel while the other tapped impatiently against the column as he complained about being late. I tried not to respond. Over the past year, I had learned that silence was often the safest reply.
About fifteen minutes into the drive, a sharp pain twisted low in my stomach. It wasn’t the usual pressure or dull ache I had grown used to. This was sudden, deep, and wrong. I pressed my hand to my belly and shifted uncomfortably in the seat.
“Eric,” I said quietly, “I need you to pull over.”
He didn’t glance at me. “You’re fine.”
