PART ONE — THE WOMAN IN THE PARKING LOT
The night my husband decided that our unborn daughter was less important than his sleep, he threw my car keys onto the bed and told me to get out.
I was thirty-four weeks pregnant, barely able to bend over without gasping, and wearing the old T-shirt I had slept in since the beginning of my third trimester.
For a moment, I thought Ryan was joking.
He wasn’t.
“Take your pillows,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“And don’t slam the door when you leave.”
I stared at him, waiting for the man I had married to reappear.
The man who had cried when he saw our first ultrasound.
The man who had painted the nursery walls a soft yellow because we hadn’t agreed on whether our daughter would prefer pink or green.
The man who had kissed my stomach every night and promised our baby that he would protect her from anything.
