He paused at the doorway and gave a bitter laugh. “My mother only turns sixty-five once. You’ve been pregnant for nine months—you can wait a few hours.”

Then he walked out.

The front door slammed so violently that the picture frames along the hallway trembled.

I tried calling him five times. He declined every call. On the sixth, his phone went straight to voicemail.

By then, there was blood.

Not a lot at first—just enough to make the room sway.

With trembling fingers, I called emergency services and crawled toward the entryway, terrified the paramedics wouldn’t be able to reach me behind a locked door.

“My husband left,” I sobbed to the dispatcher. “I’m alone and I’m pregnant. Please hurry.”

The ambulance arrived nine minutes later.

I remember red lights flashing across the ceiling. I remember a paramedic named Frank telling me to stay awake. I remember hearing the words fetal distress and possible abruption.

Then everything turned into white lights, rushing voices, and a doctor calling for emergency surgery.

Two days later, Cameron came home smiling.