The hours that followed unraveled into a haze of sterile hallways, clipped questions, and forms passed across desks without anyone meeting our eyes. Time lost its shape. Emery was taken away for a full medical evaluation, and we weren’t allowed to follow.I watched her walk down the corridor beside the nurse, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She clutched her purse with both hands like it was an anchor, her back straight, her face unreadable. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t ask if we’d be okay. She didn’t ask how Emery was doing.She just went.“I don’t like that,” James muttered beside me.

“Like what?” I asked, though something in my chest already knew.“Her face,” he said. “She didn’t cry. Didn’t panic. Didn’t even ask about the baby. That’s not shock—that’s distance.”He was right. Heather didn’t look like a mother terrified of losing her child. She looked like someone already running through scenarios, already preparing defenses.Midnight came and went before the phone finally rang.The hospital confirmed that Emery was stable, but they were keeping her overnight for observation. The bruises weren’t accidental. The doctor’s voice was careful, precise, trained to soften devastation—but the words still cut deep.No medical conditions. No clotting disorders. No explanation that could make this an accident.The marks were consistent with force. With fingers.I sat at the kitchen table long after the call ended, staring at the grain in the wood as if answers might appear there. Behind me, James paced, his footsteps sharp and restless.