The snow beneath me turned crimson before I even realized I was screaming. Above me, my husband’s truck disappeared down the street with our baby’s crib strapped into the back like stolen property.
Three days before my due date, I walked into the nursery and found Evan holding a wrench, taking apart the walnut crib my father had handcrafted before he passed away. Every rail had been sanded smooth by hand. Every curve carved for the granddaughter he would never live to meet.
“What are you doing?” I whispered.
Evan didn’t look ashamed. He looked irritated.
“My sister needs it more,” he muttered, lifting one of the side panels. “She’s having twins.”
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