Week 20: He left during the ultrasound because his phone rang. I heard him say “baby” before the hallway door closed. He doesn’t call me baby anymore.
Week 24: Found a gold earring under the passenger seat. Not mine. I don’t wear gold.
Week 27: He told me I’m being dramatic. I told him dramatic women do not hire private investigators. He laughed. He still thinks I’m bluffing.
Dorothy turned pages with increasing care, as if touching them too roughly might wound her daughter all over again.
The final entry, written six days before delivery, was the one that stayed with her longest.
I am not staying because I’m weak.
I am staying because I am carrying three children and nowhere feels safe enough yet.
But I am getting ready.
Every day, I am getting ready.
Dorothy closed the journal and held it against her chest.
That line followed her into sleep and back out again.
Every day, I am getting ready.
No one had seen Colleen preparing because women’s survival work rarely looked dramatic from the outside. It looked like nursery paint samples and prenatal appointments and folded blankets. It looked like a woman still showing up for dinner while quietly building a file that could outlive her.