“Is your husband on his way?”
Emily returned a polite, automatic smile—the kind she had learned to wear so she wouldn’t fall apart in front of strangers.
“Yes, he’ll be here soon.”
It wasn’t true.
Ethan Brooks had left seven months earlier, the same night she told him she was pregnant. He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t argued. He hadn’t even tried to explain. He packed a few clothes into a bag, muttered something about needing time, and walked out the door with a quietness that hurt more than anger ever could. Emily cried for weeks. Then one day, she simply stopped—not because the pain had faded, but because it had nowhere else to go. It turned into endurance. Into routine. Into survival.
