That night, Michael returned late, smelling of cold air and expensive scotch. He loosened his tie, his movements jerky and restless. When he kissed my forehead, his lips felt dry.

“Deborah,” he whispered later, in the dark, his back to me. “I… I just want this baby to be healthy. I want us to be okay.”

“We will be,” I murmured, reaching for his hand. He pulled it away under the pretense of adjusting the blanket.

I didn’t know it then, but he wasn’t praying for our family’s survival. He was praying for forgiveness for a sin he hadn’t yet fully committed to, but had already set in motion.

Two hours later, a pain ripped through my abdomen like a serrated knife. It was too early. A full week too early. I gasped, clutching the sheets, and shook Michael awake. “It’s time,” I groaned. But as I watched him scramble to pack his bag, I saw a flash of something on his face that didn’t look like panic. It looked like guilt. And as we drove into the night, leaving Lily with our neighbor Carol, I had the terrifying sensation that I was not driving toward a hospital, but toward a trap.