Three days before the snow, I was lying in a hospital bed at St. Jude’s, staring at the ceiling tiles and counting the cracks. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. My husband, Brandon Kingston, hadn’t visited since the delivery. Not once.

The nurses moved around me with soft footsteps and averted eyes. I could hear their whispers in the hallway, snippets of pity that made my stomach churn. “Poor thing… doesn’t know yet… shameful.”

I told myself he was busy. Brandon was the VP of Kingston Industries; deals happened, crises arose. He loved me. He had to. We had just created life together.