He couldn’t finish the sentence. I was speechless, staring at the man who was usually the rock of our marriage, now crumbling against the sterilized beige wall of the hallway. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, not knowing that the call would shatter our lives forever.

My name is Emily Carter. Just two hours earlier, the world had made sense. My younger sister, Emma, had finally given birth after years of fertility struggles. My husband, Daniel, and I had driven through the relentless Seattle drizzle to St. Mary’s Medical Center, a bouquet of yellow tulips in my hand and a stuffed bear tucked under Daniel’s arm.