At eight months pregnant, I learned that my unborn daughter’s heart had stopped beating. I begged my husband to come to the hospital, but he chose my sister’s wedding rehearsal over watching me deliver our lifeless baby. Three days later, he returned with my entire family and an outrageous demand, never imagining that my answer would leave every one of them speechless.

I was thirty-four weeks pregnant when the nightmare began.

Our little girl, the miracle Owen and I had fought three agonizing years of fertility treatments to conceive, had suddenly stopped moving.

“Please,” I whispered as the ultrasound technician moved the probe across my belly. “Tell me she's okay.”

She stared at the monitor, her expression changing.

Then the doctor entered.

“Natalie, I'm so sorry. We can't find your daughter's heartbeat.”

“No!” I screamed, gripping the examination table. “She was kicking yesterday! Check again! PLEASE!”

But nobody moved.

And the silence told me everything.

My baby girl was gone.

I pictured her nursery, the crib Owen and I had painted together, the tiny pink socks waiting in her drawer, and the stuffed rabbit he'd bought when we discovered we were having a daughter.

She would never sleep in that crib.

Never wear those socks.

And somehow, I still had to give birth to her.

The doctors explained that they needed to induce labor. I could barely understand their words through the roaring in my ears.

I wanted my husband.

For years, I'd defended Owen whenever someone accused him of caring more about appearances and pleasing my family than protecting our marriage.

He'd promised that nothing would ever come before our daughter and me.

With trembling fingers, I called him.

Four rings.

Then his voice.

“Hey, Natalie. What's going on?”

Behind him, I heard laughter, music, and champagne glasses clinking.