I remember the nurses’ sympathetic smiles as they assured me that he was probably just delayed. With each passing minute, the sinking feeling in my stomach grew worse.

I had been calling him for hours, leaving desperate voicemails, but there was no response. As the contractions intensified, so did my fear. Was I really about to do this by myself? What could have kept him from being here?

“Come on, Michael,” I said through gritted teeth.

When my daughter arrived, I was overwhelmed with joy, but it was tainted by the empty spot beside me where my husband should have been. Where was Michael? Why hadn’t he shown up?

My mother was with me throughout, holding my hand when Michael should have been, but I could see the worry in her eyes, too. And if she knew anything, she certainly didn’t tell me.

“Just relax, Elena,” my mother said. “Focus on Emily now. And yourself; your body needs a moment.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m just worried.”

After two days in the hospital, I was finally discharged. My mother helped me carry Emily to the car, and we headed home. The ride was silent, and my mother kept drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.

I tried to keep myself calm, telling myself that there must be a reasonable explanation for Michael’s absence. Maybe something happened at work. Maybe he’d had an accident and was away in another hospital.

The scenarios grew wilder with each mile we drove.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I found when we got home.

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