Natasha touched Julian's arm. That small gesture. The one I'd seen a thousand times. Her fingers rested there for just a moment, light and familiar. She leaned in close and whispered something I couldn't hear.
Julian nodded. He looked down at Chana, still sobbing against his chest. Then he looked at Natasha. Not at me.
"We should go," Natasha said softly. Her voice carried just enough to reach me. "This is too much for Chana. She's terrified."
I tried to push myself up. My arms shook. The pain in my stomach was getting worse. Sharper. Like something inside me was tearing.
"Julian," I said. My voice came out weak. "Please don't leave me here."
He took Natasha's hand. Then Chana's. His fingers laced through theirs like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Julian!" I called out louder. "I'm hurt. I need help. Please."
He didn't turn around. He just walked. The three of them moved together toward the parking lot. Their silhouettes got smaller under the streetlights. Chana's sobs faded into the distance.
I watched them disappear around the corner. Then I was alone.
The cold seeped through my coat, through my clothes, into my skin. The sidewalk was frozen solid beneath me. Ice crystals glittered in the cracks. My breath came out in short white clouds.
I tried to move again. The pain exploded through my abdomen. I gasped and curled tighter around myself. Something was very wrong. I knew it in my bones.
A couple walked past on the other side of the street. They glanced over but didn't stop. Maybe they thought I was drunk. Maybe they just didn't want to get involved.
I pressed my hand against my stomach. It felt wrong. Too tender. Too much pressure building inside.
My phone. Where was my phone?
I turned my head slowly, searching the ground. There. A few inches away, face down on the concrete. I stretched my arm out. My fingers brushed the edge of the case. I pulled it closer.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it. I fumbled with the screen. Tried to unlock it. Failed. Tried again.
Finally, it opened. I tapped the phone icon. My vision blurred. I blinked hard and found the keypad. Nine. One. One.
It rang twice.
"911, what's your emergency?"
The operator's voice was calm. Professional. It made me want to cry.
"I need help," I whispered. "I fell. I'm pregnant. I think—I think something's really wrong."
"Okay, ma'am. Can you tell me where you are?"
"Pine Street." My teeth were chattering. "Outside Rosario's restaurant. I can't get up. It hurts too much."
"Help is on the way. Stay on the line with me, okay? What's your name?"
"Daisy. Daisy Howard."
"Daisy, I need you to stay as still as you can. The ambulance will be there soon. Can you tell me where you're hurt?"
"My stomach." The words came out in gasps. "I fell on my stomach. And there's pain. So much pain. Like something's tearing inside."
"How far along are you?"
"Twelve weeks."
There was a pause. Just a second. But I heard it. "Okay, Daisy. The paramedics are three minutes away. I'm going to stay right here with you until they arrive."
I closed my eyes. The cold was getting deeper. My fingers were going numb. I couldn't feel my toes anymore.
"Daisy? Are you still with me?"
"Yeah," I whispered. "I'm here."
"Good. Keep talking to me. Is anyone there with you?"
"No." The word came out flat. Empty. "My husband left. He walked away."
Another pause. "I'm sorry, Daisy. But help is almost there. Just hold on."
I heard the siren before I saw the lights. Red and white flashing against the dark buildings. The ambulance pulled up to the curb. Doors slammed. Footsteps rushed toward me.
"Ma'am, can you hear me?"
I opened my eyes. A paramedic knelt beside me. Young guy with kind eyes. His partner was already pulling equipment from the ambulance.
"I'm pregnant," I said. "Twelve weeks. I fell."
His face went serious. "Okay. We're going to take care of you. Can you tell me where it hurts most?"
"My stomach. Lower abdomen. It's bad."
He nodded and looked at his partner. They moved fast. Blood pressure cuff. Stethoscope. Questions I barely registered. Then they lifted me onto a stretcher. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through me. I bit down on my lip to keep from screaming.
The inside of the ambulance was warm. Bright lights. Beeping monitors. The female paramedic started an IV while her partner radioed ahead to the hospital.
"Possible miscarriage in progress. Twelve weeks gestation. Patient reports severe abdominal pain after a fall. BP is low. We're five minutes out."
Miscarriage. The word hung in the air like smoke.
I turned my face toward the window. Watched the streetlights blur past. Somewhere out there, Julian was with Natasha and Chana. Probably taking them home. Making sure they were comfortable. Safe.
He had no idea what he'd left behind on that frozen sidewalk.
Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn't care.
The ambulance pulled into the ER bay. More voices. More hands. They wheeled me through automatic doors into a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and floor wax.
A doctor appeared. Older woman with gray hair pulled back tight. She looked at the chart, then at me.
"Daisy Howard?"
I nodded.
"I'm Dr. Reyes. We're going to get you into an exam room and see what's going on. How's your pain right now?"
"Bad," I whispered. "Really bad."
She nodded and said something to a nurse. They wheeled me into a small room with blue curtains. The nurse helped me change into a gown. Every movement hurt.
Dr. Reyes came back with an ultrasound machine. She squeezed gel onto my stomach. The coldness made me flinch.
"This might be uncomfortable," she said. "I need to check on the baby."
She moved the wand across my abdomen. Her eyes were fixed on the screen. I watched her face. Watched the small crease form between her eyebrows. Watched her lips press together.
She set the wand down and pulled off her gloves.
"Daisy," she said quietly. "I'm very sorry. There's no heartbeat. You've lost the pregnancy."
The words didn't land at first. They just floated there. No heartbeat. Lost the pregnancy.
Then they hit. All at once. Like a second fall.
"No," I whispered. "No, that can't—"
"I'm so sorry," Dr. Reyes said again. "The fall caused significant trauma. There's also evidence of uterine damage. I need to run more tests, but I'm concerned about the extent of the internal injury."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The baby. Our baby. Gone.
"What does that mean?" I asked. "The uterine damage. What does that mean?"
Dr. Reyes sat down on the stool beside the bed. Her face was kind but serious. "It means there's a risk of permanent infertility. The trauma was severe. You're going to need specialized surgical intervention—the kind we don't have the equipment for here. There's a reproductive medicine clinic in New York City that handles cases like this. I'll make the referral tonight."
New York. Surgery. Infertility.
I turned my face toward the wall. The tears came then. Silent. Hot. Endless.
"Is there someone I can call for you?" Dr. Reyes asked. "Your husband? Family?"
I thought of Julian. Walking away. Holding Natasha's hand.
"No," I said. "There's no one."
But that wasn't true. There was someone.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table. Found my attorney's number. Victor Hale. I'd hired him six months ago for something unrelated. He was good. Thorough. Discreet.
I typed out a text with shaking fingers.
*I need you to file divorce papers immediately. I'll send you the details in the morning. And I need copies of all my medical records from tonight. Official copies. Stamped. I want them delivered to my husband with the divorce papers.*
I hit send. Then I set the phone down and closed my eyes.
The baby was gone. My marriage was over. And I was flying to New York City to try to salvage whatever was left of my future.
Julian had made his choice on that frozen sidewalk.
Now I was making mine.
