When I lost the baby, I was already weak. But my husband said I must have fallen on purpose.

The placental abruption was catastrophic. Dr. Martinez had explained 6 hours earlier, her voice professionally gentle. There was nothing anyone could have done. Sometimes these things just happen. She’d handed me pamphlets about grief counseling and support groups, as if printed words could somehow fill the emshaped hole carved out of my chest.

But Ryan hadn’t been listening to Dr. Martinez. He’d been pacing the hospital room like a caged animal, his jaw working silently, building toward something explosive. I should have recognized the signs. The way his hands clenched and unclenched, the muscle twitching near his left eye. the deliberate slow breathing he did when he was about to lose control.

You never wanted this baby anyway.

The words tore through our living room like shrapnel. I looked up from the growing blood stain, seeing my husband transform into someone I didn’t recognize. His face was twisted with rage, but underneath it was something worse. Relief. As if losing Emma had solved some problem he’d been wrestling with.

Ryan, please.