The apartment felt unusually quiet.
I had returned to Boston two days earlier than planned, excited to surprise my pregnant wife, Clara. During the flight home, I imagined her smile, the look of surprise on her face, and the evening we’d spend talking about the future we were building together.
Instead, the moment I unlocked the front door, something felt wrong.
The bouquet of flowers I had carried from the airport slipped from my hand as I rushed toward the bedroom.
Clara was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her stomach tightly. A glass of water lay shattered on the floor, and our framed wedding photo had fallen beside it, broken into dozens of pieces.
For one terrible moment, my mind raced in the wrong direction.
Recent conversations with my mother suddenly echoed in my head, filling me with doubts I should never have entertained.
I froze.
Only for seconds.
But those seconds felt endless.
Then Clara looked up.
Her face was pale.
She was trembling.
Her voice was barely strong enough to reach me.
“Ethan…”
Everything else disappeared.
I rushed to her side and immediately saw blood on her hand where the broken frame had cut her.
“What happened?” I asked, struggling to stay calm.
“I tried calling you,” she whispered. “I thought it would pass… but it kept getting worse.”
I grabbed her phone from the floor.
The screen revealed call after call.
Twenty missed calls to me.
Two unsuccessful emergency calls.
Then one more number.
My mother.
The call had connected.
“Did she help?” I asked.
Clara closed her eyes before quietly answering.
“I asked her to send an ambulance.”
My heart sank.
“She thought I was exaggerating.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
Without another word, I wrapped my jacket around Clara, carefully helped her to her feet, and rushed her to the hospital.
The drive felt endless.
Every traffic light.
Every minute.
Every breath.
