Part 2

The first thing I heard was beeping.

Soft, steady, mechanical.

For a few seconds, I floated in darkness, unable to understand where I was or why my body felt so heavy. My mouth was dry. My throat burned. My arms seemed attached to something I couldn’t see.

Then came Ethan’s voice.

“Emily?”

It was cracked and unfamiliar, as if he had spent hours calling my name and had finally run out of strength.

I forced my eyes open.

The room was dim, washed in pale blue hospital light. A monitor stood beside my bed. Clear tubing ran into my arm. Another belt rested across my stomach, attached to a machine tracing soft, uneven lines on paper.

Ethan sat beside me, hunched forward, both hands wrapped around mine.

His face was gray.

“Emily,” he whispered again.

I tried to speak, but only a rasp came out.

He leaned closer immediately. “Don’t try to talk. Just rest.”

My eyes moved past him.

His mother, Diane, stood near the window with one hand pressed to her mouth. His father, Robert, was in the corner, stiff and pale, staring at the floor as though he couldn’t bear to look at me.

And Brittany was there.

She stood near the door.

Her arms were no longer folded. Her smirk was gone. Her face had lost all color, and for the first time since I had met her, she looked genuinely afraid.

A doctor entered moments later with a nurse at her side.

“Emily,” she said gently, “I’m Dr. Patel. You’re in the hospital. You were brought in after a prolonged exposure to freezing temperatures. You lost consciousness, but you’re stable now.”

My hand moved instinctively to my stomach.

The doctor noticed.

“Your baby has a heartbeat,” she said quickly.

A sob tore out of me before I could stop it.

Ethan lowered his head and kissed my hand. His shoulders shook once.

“But,” Dr. Patel continued carefully, “you experienced strong contractions and significant physical stress. We were concerned about preterm labor.”

My heart started pounding.

“Is she okay?” I whispered.

“She is stable right now,” the doctor said. “We’ve given medication to help calm the contractions, and we’re monitoring both of you closely. But you’ll need to remain here for observation.”

She.

My baby was a girl.

Ethan and I had decided not to find out until birth.

For months, we had called the baby “Peanut,” laughing over guesses and nursery colors and names we couldn’t agree on.

But in that cold hospital room, with fear still wrapped around my bones, I learned I was carrying a daughter.

The news should have felt beautiful.

Instead, it arrived surrounded by monitors, IV lines, and the memory of my cheek against frozen concrete.

I turned toward Ethan.

“You knew?”

His eyes filled again. “They had to tell me during the ultrasound. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head weakly. “No. Don’t be sorry.”

For a moment, the room was silent.

Then Diane made a small, broken sound.

“Emily,” she whispered, stepping forward. “I am so sorry.”

Her face crumpled.

Robert remained in the corner, but he looked up at last. His eyes were red.

I couldn’t look at them for long.

Because behind them stood Brittany.

I remembered her through the glass.

Her expression.

Her words.

Maybe a little suffering will teach you not to be so weak.

The memory hit me so sharply that my body tightened.

The monitor beside me quickened.

The nurse glanced at the screen.

Ethan noticed instantly. “Brittany, get out.”

His voice was quiet, but it landed like a door slamming.

Brittany blinked. “Ethan—”

“Get out.”

“I didn’t know it would—”

He stood so fast his chair scraped against the floor.

“You locked my pregnant wife outside in freezing weather.”

Brittany’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Diane turned toward her daughter, stunned all over again, as if hearing it spoken so plainly made the truth even worse.

“I thought someone would hear her,” Brittany said. Her voice trembled. “I thought it was just a minute.”

“It wasn’t a minute,” Ethan said. “Dad and I were downstairs. Mom was on the phone in the bedroom. Everyone else was in the living room with music playing. You knew she was out there.”