The phone rang at 3:14 in the afternoon—a shrill, invasive sound that sliced through the serenity of the nursery. I was on my knees on the plush rug, my eight-month belly resting heavily on my thighs as I folded a tiny onesie. It was a yellow so soft it looked like spun sunlight, a promise of the life growing inside me.
I smiled, tracing the small embroidered duck on the chest, imagining my son filling out the fabric. Just a few more weeks, I thought.
Then the phone rang again. Persistent. Demanding.
I pushed myself up with a groan, pressing a hand to the small of my aching back. I waddled to the dresser and answered on speaker without checking the ID.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end wasn’t anyone I knew. It was deep, male, and carried an official cadence that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
“Mrs. Thompson? Laura Thompson?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“This is the Washington State Patrol. Your husband, Michael Thompson, was in a car accident on I-5 heading toward Portland.”
The air in my lungs turned to ice. The yellow onesie slipped from my numb fingers and fluttered to the floor.
“Accident?” My voice was a whisper. “Is… is he okay?”
