I never told my parents the truth about who my husband really was. In their eyes, he was simply a disappointment compared to my sister’s successful CEO husband. When I went into labor earlier than expected while my husband was overseas, the pain hi:t hard and fast.

So on the second afternoon of Ethan’s trip, I drove to the house where I had grown up.

My parents lived in one of those neighborhoods that looked as though developers had designed it around aspiration rather than comfort: broad lawns, stone facades, silent garages, imported trees, and a kind of curated perfection that made every home resemble a showroom for wealth rather than a place where messy human beings actually lived. Their house sat at the end of a gently curving drive lined with trimmed hedges and white hydrangeas my mother cared about more consistently than she had ever cared about my emotions.

The air smelled like cut grass and early rain when I parked.

I remember stepping out carefully, one hand braced against the small of my back, and feeling an odd restlessness move through me. Not pain exactly. More like pressure. Tightness. A quiet signal from my body that something was shifting out of sequence.

Inside, the house was immaculate and cool.