The community pool was an oasis of blue in the oppressive, shimmering heat of a late July afternoon. The air hung thick, smelling sharply of chlorine and melting asphalt. I sat on a white plastic lounge chair, the heavy, swollen weight of my eight-month pregnancy pressing down like a sandbag against my pelvis. I leaned back, closing my eyes, and rubbed my aching, puffy ankles.

For a moment, I let myself feel a profound, quiet contentment. My phone buzzed on the small table beside me. It was a text from Derek, my husband.

“Stuck at the office again, babe. Trying to bill these extra hours so we can finish the baby’s nursery before he gets here. I love you. So much.”