During my final prenatal visit, the doctor studied the ultrasound, his hands trembling. In a hushed tone, he urged, “You need to leave this place and distance yourself from your husband.”
The overhead lights in the examination room glowed softly, casting a faint hum that echoed like a restless moth trapped in a jar. Emma Harris shifted on the padded table, her hand gently resting on her swollen belly. At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, she felt a mix of exhaustion and eager hope—this visit was supposed to ...

















