Every contraction felt like a steel cable tightening around my spine, then yanking downward with enough force to split me in two.
The room smelled like antiseptic, sweat, and that faint copper scent that clings to fear.
Andrew stood in the corner in a pressed blue shirt that still looked office crisp, as if he had preserved himself from the mess of what was happening to me.
Every time I reached for him, his eyes were on his phone.
In the months before that night, I had begun to understand that something in our marriage was wrong.
Andrew had grown distracted when I got pregnant, then impatient, then secretive.
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