I didn’t wake up slowly that night. I woke to pain so sharp it cleaved through me without wa:r:ning—the kind that leaves no room for doubt or denial. I lay rigid in the darkness, staring at the bedroom ceiling, my thoughts racing to catch up with what my body already understood. Then came the warmth beneath me, and the truth settled heavily in my chest.
My water had broken.
My name is Emily Carter. I was thirty-one, eight months pregnant, and alone in our quiet house outside Annapolis, Maryland. My husband was meant to be away on a brief work trip. We’d talked through this moment before—who to call, how to stay calm, what steps to follow—but no amount of planning prepares you for the hollow silence that follows when the life you trusted begins to crack.
Instinct took over. I reached for my phone and called my husband, Daniel Carter—because when fear and hope collide, you call the person who swore they would be there when it mattered.
