My husband said he was flying to Denver for work, so I went to my prenatal appointment alone. While waiting outside maternity triage, I saw him rushing down the hall with one arm around a heavily pregnant woman

both.”

I stared at the message briefly before slipping my phone back into my purse.

Adrian had kissed my forehead before sunrise, wheeled his suitcase through our front door, and apologized three times for missing my twenty-eight-week prenatal appointment.

“It’s just bad timing,” he’d said.

I told him it was fine.

I meant it.

I was thirty-four, pregnant with our first child after nearly two years of trying, and determined not to treat every work trip like abandonment.

Adrian worked in logistics consulting. Denver trips happened. Client emergencies happened.

Marriage