Every cramp frightened her.

Every doctor’s appointment at the clinic near Cedar Ridge felt less like routine prenatal care and more like an examination she had to pass before being allowed another week of happiness.

Her husband, Spencer, attended everything.

He brought snacks.

Held her hand.

Reminded her to drink water.

Sat beside her during scans.

When Chloe became convinced something was wrong because she felt fewer symptoms one morning, Spencer drove her to the clinic without complaining.

I was grateful for him.

At the time, I believed he understood what she had endured better than anyone.

By the second trimester, Chloe began allowing herself small pieces of joy.

A stuffed bunny.

Tiny white socks.

A wooden picture frame beside the crib.