Mara never forgot the smell of that delivery room—sharp disinfectant, warm plastic, and the faint metallic tang that always followed panic. It was supposed to be the moment their family expanded, the moment their five-year-old daughter, Nira, finally got to meet the baby brother she had been whispering to every night. For months, Nira had treated Mara’s belly like a secret mailbox, pressing her small cheek against it and telling the baby about playground drama, about the cat next door, about how she would teach him to stack blocks and “not be scared of thunder.
” Jace, Mara’s husband, had seemed like the kind of man who made safety feel effortless. He worked long hours, yes, but he kissed foreheads before bed, brought home little treats, and spoke in that gentle voice that made strangers trust him in minutes. Mara had once been a nurse; she knew how complicated pregnancies could be, how bodies could turn unpredictable even when everything looked normal on paper. So when the dizziness started around her fifth month—when nausea refused to stay in the morning and headaches came like a vise tightening behind her eyes—she told herself it was just one of those hard pregnancies, the kind you endure and then forget once the baby is in your arms. Jace leaned into it with almost performative care. He lined up her supplements each morning like a ritual: prenatal vitamins, iron, and a few herbal capsules he insisted would help with nausea and circulation. “I’m taking care of you,” he’d say, smiling as he set the glass of water beside them.