And the arithmetic did not work.

Three months.

Our daughter might not even be born before her father was gone.

He would probably never live long enough to meet her.

I sat in that room with one hand on my pregnant belly and one hand in my husband’s, and I understood that the two most important events of my life, the beginning of my daughter and the end of my husband, were going to happen almost at the same time, in the same short span of weeks, and that there was nothing anyone could do to move them apart.

I did not cry, in the room.