I hadn’t felt safe in months, maybe longer. Living in that house with Patricia’s constant criticism, Gerald’s dismissive comments, Tyler’s complete unwillingness to defend me. I’d normalized it somehow, convinced myself it was just typical family tension, that things would get better after the baby came.

The anesthesiologist introduced himself as Dr. James Park.

“We’re going to take good care of both of you,” he promised, adjusting the IV in my arm. “Try to relax. We’ve got this.”

I wanted to tell him that relaxing was impossible, that my entire body felt like it was on fire, both literally and metaphorically, that I was terrified my baby wouldn’t survive this. But the medication was already pulling me under, and the last thing I remembered was wondering if Tyler would even bother to come to the hospital.

Tyler arrived at the hospital three hours later, after the surgery was complete. Later, I learned that the hospital had called him within minutes of my arrival, but he’d finished his workday first before bothering to come check on his wife and newborn daughter.