The house stayed silent all night, and the bedroom was so cold I slept in my clothes under two heavy blankets.

By seven the next morning the smell of melted butter and hot maple syrup filled the whole kitchen.

David stood at the gas stove in a crisp white dress shirt, flipping buttermilk pancakes in our black iron skillet.

He put a tall glass of orange juice on the laminate counter right next to my right hand.

“I made extra,” he said, laying the metal spatula down against the burner with a soft clatter.

“You have to keep your strength up for the third trimester.”