Thomas gripped the steering wheel of his truck.

His knuckles turned a sharp, bloodless white.

The heater blasted hot, dry air into the cabin, but I felt entirely cold.

“He left you to die, Emma,” Thomas said.

“I know,” I said.

“He is not taking that baby,” Thomas said.

He shifted the truck into drive.

The tires crunched over the packed snow as we pulled away from the curb.

***

Two weeks later, the snow in Denver had turned to gray slush along the gutters.

My sister Laura sat in Thomas’s living room, gently rocking Ethan in her arms.

“You look beautiful, Em,” Laura said, keeping her voice low so the baby wouldn’t wake.

I looked down at my dark pantsuit.

It was loose on me now; I had lost fifteen pounds since the delivery.

My body still ached when I walked too fast.

The stitches from my emergency surgery pulled at my skin, a constant, stinging reminder of how close I had come to the edge.

“I don’t feel beautiful,” I said. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”