At eight months pregnant, I was already moving cautiously, counting every step and every breath. That morning my husband, Eric, was in one of his moods\u2014the kind where every red light felt like an insult and every delay seemed like a personal attack. He was driving me to my prenatal appointment before heading to work, one hand on the steering wheel while the other tapped impatiently against the column as he complained about being late. I tried not to respond. Over the past year, I had learned that silence was often the safest reply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About fifteen minutes into the drive, a sharp pain twisted low in my stomach. It wasn\u2019t the usual pressure or dull ache I had grown used to. This was sudden, deep, and wrong. I pressed my hand to my belly and shifted uncomfortably in the seat.\u201cEric,\u201d I said quietly, \u201cI need you to pull over.\u201dHe didn\u2019t glance at me. \u201cYou\u2019re fine.\u201dAnother cramp hit, stronger this time. \u201cNo, I\u2019m not fine. Please. Just stop for a minute.\u201dHe exhaled sharply through his nose as if I had deliberately ruined his morning. \u201cI\u2019m already late, Claire.\u201dI gripped the handle above the door. \u201cSomething doesn\u2019t feel right.\u201dHe swerved into a side street, slammed on the brakes, and turned toward me with a face so cold it barely seemed familiar. \u201cYou are always doing this. Every time something matters to me, you need attention.\u201dBefore I could answer, he got out, yanked open my door, and grabbed my arm. I was too shocked to react quickly enough. He pulled me halfway out of the car while I tried to steady myself against the doorframe.\u201cEric, stop!\u201d I cried. \u201cI\u2019m in pain!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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