My stomach turned over, a sick feeling rising in my throat.

“She is pregnant,” I said, my hands trembling as I reached into my pocket for my phone. “She is seven months pregnant.”

“And she is weak,” my mother replied, looking down at Megan’s pale face.

“She was never strong enough to carry your father’s legacy.”

Megan’s chest heaved, a low groan escaping her blue-tinged lips.

I frantically swiped at my phone screen, my fingers slick with sweat.

I dialed three digits and pressed the call button.

“911, what is your emergency?” a woman’s voice static-clung through the speaker.

“My wife,” I choked out, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder while cradling Megan’s head. “She’s pregnant. She’s collapsing. She can’t breathe.”

“Sir, what is the address?” the operator asked, her voice calm and urgent.

“Eighteen-forty-two West Twenty-First Place,” I said, reading the numbers off the mail stack on the counter. “Apartment two. Hurry, please.”

“Paramedics are on their way, sir. Is she conscious?”

“No, she’s barely responsive,” I said, watching Megan’s eyes roll back again.