Nineteen weeks. Almost five months.
I’d just started getting used to the baby moving. Little butterfly flutters at first. Then actual kicks, tiny, stubborn reminders that someone was in there, growing, alive, depending on me to keep it safe.
This didn’t feel like movement.
This felt like something was going wrong.
The pain eased just enough for me to stand upright again, but a wave of dizziness rolled through me. My palms were already damp. My heart started pounding too fast, too loud, like my body had skipped straight past concern into full panic.
I hurried to the bathroom; one hand braced on the wall as another cramp tightened through my lower stomach. I barely made it to the toilet before I saw it.
Light pink.
Not bright red. Not heavy.
But enough.
Enough to make the air leave my lungs in a broken, shaking exhale.
“No… please…”
My hands trembled as I grabbed toilet paper again, checking, hoping maybe I imagined it. Another faint smear of pink stared back at me like proof.
My pulse roared in my ears.
I washed my hands too fast, water splashing everywhere, then stumbled back toward the kitchen counter where I’d left my phone. My fingers felt clumsy, numb, like they weren’t attached to me.
I called Cal.
It rang once.
Twice.
Voicemail.
My chest tightened so sharply it almost felt like another cramp.
“Cal, please pick up…” I whispered to the ringing that wasn’t there anymore.
I texted instead.
Need to go to ER. Bleeding a little. Cramping bad.
I stared at the screen so hard my vision blurred. Waiting for the typing bubbles. Waiting for anything.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Nothing.
The silence felt loud. Crushing. Like the whole house was holding its breath with me.
Eli was in the living room, headphones on, tablet balanced on his knees, some brightly colored train cartoon flashing across the screen. His feet kicked lightly against the couch cushions, completely unaware that my world was tipping sideways five rooms away.
I didn’t want him to see my face like this.
