The call came on a Tuesday.
Ariel already knew it wasn’t going to be good news. She’d been dodging that number for weeks — the 1-800 prefix, the generic hold music, the polite voice on the other end that always managed to sound both sympathetic and completely indifferent at the same time. But this time, she picked up.
“Ariel, this is Brenda calling from the mortgage department.”
She pressed her free hand flat against her belly — thirty-four weeks along, her daughter restless and rolling like she already knew something was wrong.
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