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She did not answer.
At 1:32 p.m., a text came through.
Evan: Mom says you’re taking this too far.
At 1:34 p.m., another.
Evan: Tell them it was an accident.
At 1:36 p.m., one more.
Evan: Mia, answer me.
The nurse watched Mia read them.
“Do you want me to note those in your chart?” she asked.
Mia looked at the monitor where her daughter’s heartbeat kept moving across the screen.
“Yes,” she said.
That was the first decision she made as someone’s mother instead of someone’s wife.
By evening, the contractions had slowed.
The bleeding had been monitored.
The doctors used careful language.
Observation.
Risk.
Precaution.
Mia listened to every word because terror had made her sharp.
The baby was still safe.
For now, that was enough to keep her breathing.
Mrs. Keller came to the hospital with a paper grocery bag packed like a person who had no idea what to bring but could not bear to bring nothing.
A toothbrush.
A phone charger.
Warm socks.
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