An hour before my wedding, I was barefoot in the bridal suite of Redwood Grace Chapel in Seattle, one hand pressed against my lower back and the other resting on my swollen belly. The pain was sharp and intense, rising in waves that came and went while leaving me breathless and shaken.
At seven months pregnant, every moment felt fragile, as if the air itself could break the careful balance of this day. I was alone in the suite for the first time all morning, and the silence felt heavier than anything I had carried before.
My maid of honor, Savannah, had gone downstairs to check the flowers again, while my mother was in the reception hall adjusting place cards with nervous precision. After months of planning, this was supposed to be the perfect day where everything finally came together.
Instead, I stood there trying to breathe through contractions that I prayed were not labor yet, while my fingers traced the lace of my wedding dress like it belonged to someone else. I thought I heard my fiancé, Caleb Foster, speaking just outside the hallway door.