My husband, Javier Morales, kissed my forehead outside our home and offered that familiar, steady smile—one I had long stopped questioning.
“France. Just a brief work trip,” he said, straightening his coat.
I was eight months pregnant, exhausted, and in no condition to argue. I wished him a safe journey, shut the door behind him, and had no idea that quiet moment would become the line dividing my life in two.
A few hours later, the hospital air reeked of antiseptic and dread. Labor had started too soon, everything moving at a frightening speed. When I finally came out of surgery, still foggy from anesthesia, I asked for Javier. The nurse paused, glanced at her tablet, then gestured vaguely down the hall.
“He’s… with his family,” she said softly.
