When I came home late from the hospital, my husband slapped me hard and screamed, “Do you know what time it is, you useless b!.tch?

I dialed Leo’s number. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Please answer. Please, Leo.

The phone rang twice. Then, the automated voice clicked in. Call forwarded to voicemail.

He was ignoring me. He had told me that morning he was playing golf with a prospective client and didn’t want to be “bothered with domestic whining.”

I dialed again, my fingers slipping on the screen.

Call rejected. He had actively pressed the button to send me to voicemail.

The pain flared again, so intense it forced a scream from my throat. My vision blurred heavily. I was losing too much blood. I was losing my baby. The man who had put this child inside me was ignoring my calls because I was an inconvenience to his back nine.

With the last ounce of strength I possessed, my thumb hovered over my contacts. I scrolled past Leo. I scrolled past Helen. I found the only name in my phone that represented absolute, unwavering safety.

I pressed call.

He answered on the first ring. He always did.

“Maya,” the voice was deep, resonant, and clipped.

“Dad,” I sobbed, clutching my stomach, curling into a fetal position on the wet, bloody floor. “Dad, help me.”