His getaway was waiting, and his mind was already in the mountains. “It won’t stop,” I gasped, my breathing turning shallow and erratic. “Ryan… I can’t stand up.” He paused, but not to help me.

He sighed dramatically, the kind of heavy, exaggerated exhalation a teenager gives when asked to do chores.

He looked at my reflection in the mirror, his face twisted in annoyance. “Emma, every woman deals with this after having a baby! You’re working yourself into a panic over nothing.” “This isn’t normal,” I sobbed, the edges of my vision beginning to blur into a static gray.

“My mother had three kids and never complained once,” he snapped back coldly, turning to grab his watch from the console table. “You just need to rest. Drink some water. I’m going to miss my reservation if I don’t hit the road now.” The room tilted violently.

My hands trembled against the rug, slipping slightly. The realization that I was entirely on my own hit me harder than the physical pain. “Please,” I begged, tears spilling hot down my face. “Please, Ryan. I think I need a hospital.” He grabbed his weekender bag, slung it over his shoulder, and looked down at me with utter contempt.

“I am not spending my birthday sitting in a sterile hospital waiting room because you have anxiety. Call your sister if you’re that worked up.” And then he turned around, walked down the stairs, and shut the front door. A few seconds later, I heard the muffled roar of his SUV starting up in the driveway.

He actually left. The silence that fell over the house was deafening, broken only by a soft whimper from Ethan in his bassinet.

That tiny sound was the only thing that kept me from fully surrendering to the darkness creeping into my mind. I couldn’t pass out.

If I passed out, Ethan would be alone. Using every ounce of strength I had left, I dragged myself across the floor, inch by agonizing inch, toward the rocking chair where I had left my phone. The pain was blinding. I was hyperventilating, my fingers slick and trembling as I finally grasped the phone and dialed 911.

The dispatcher’s voice was calm, but I could barely formulate a sentence. “I just had a baby,” I choked out. “I’m alone. I’m hemorrhaging. Please.” I managed to unlock the front door via the smart home app on my phone before everything finally faded to black.

The last thing I remember was the heavy thud of footsteps rushing up the stairs and a paramedic shouting my name. I woke up hours later in a brightly lit hospital room. The steady, rhythmic beeping of monitors filled my ears. My throat felt like sandpaper.

When I turned my head, my older sister, Sarah, was sitting in the chair next to my bed. Her eyes were red and swollen, but when she saw me looking at her, she rushed forward, gripping my hand tightly.