Eight months pregnant, I was moving slowly, as if each step carried the weight of two lives. My name is Natalie Foster, and that afternoon, in the apartment in Chicago, I forgot to put salt in the soup. It was a small mistake, but with Connor, negligence was paid for dearly.

The evening began like many others in the small apartment on the south side of Chicago, with the windows cracked open to let in the weak autumn air and the sound of traffic drifting up from the street below. Natalie Foster stood at the stove, one hand resting instinctively on her swollen belly while the other stirred a pot of soup. The smell of chicken broth and vegetables filled the kitchen, warm and familiar, the kind of smell that once made her believe she was building something stable.

She heard the front door slam.

Connor Foster came in without greeting her. His tie was loose, his jacket half off his shoulder, his face tight with irritation that had nothing to do with hunger. Natalie did not turn right away. She had learned that sudden movements sometimes made things worse.

“What is this?” Connor asked, dipping a spoon into the pot without waiting for an answer.

“Soup,” Natalie replied calmly. “You said you would be late, so I kept it warm.”

He tasted it, frowned, then tasted it again, his jaw tightening.

“Did you even season this?” he snapped.