I reached out, my hand trembling, toward the plastic bassinet beside my bed. Inside, wrapped in a generic hospital blanket, lay Lily. She was perfect. Tiny fingers, a button nose, and a tuft of dark hair. I touched her hand, feeling a surge of love so powerful it terrified me.

But the fear that followed was immediate and suffocating.

My phone buzzed on the metal tray table.

Richard: Mom is furious. You promised a boy. I’m not coming up. I’m handling family damage control in the lobby. Don’t call.

I stared at the screen, the blue light stinging my eyes. He wasn’t coming. My husband, the man who had vowed to stand by me, was downstairs apologizing for our daughter’s gender.

In the Sterling family, sons were currency. Daughters were debts. Beatrice, my mother-in-law, had made that clear from the day Richard brought me home. “We need an heir, Elena,” she had said, eyeing my hips like I was livestock. “The Sterling name must continue.”