Part 2
Then a sharp cramp shot through my lower abdomen, stronger than anything I had ever felt before, and my legs nearly gave out beneath me.
I grabbed the balcony railing with both hands, but my fingers were already too numb to hold on properly. The metal burned like ice against my skin. My breath came out in white bursts, thin and frantic, disappearing into the dark November air.
“Jacob!” I screamed.
My voice cracked.
Inside, the apartment glowed warm and golden. I could see the dining room lights, the half-cleared table, the steam still rising from the gravy boat. Everyone was only a few steps away from me, separated by one pane of glass and Brenda’s cruelty.
I pounded again.
Once. Twice. Again.
My palms stung. My knuckles throbbed. Then they stopped hurting at all, which scared me more.
Another cramp seized me, tighter this time, wrapping around my belly like a fist. I doubled over, gasping, one hand pressed beneath my ribs.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no…”
The baby shifted inside me, then went still.
That was when true terror took hold.
I forgot Brenda. I forgot pride. I forgot the humiliation of begging someone who hated me.
I slid down to my knees and struck the glass with the side of my fist.
“Please!” I sobbed. “Please, somebody! Help me!”
For one moment, Brenda returned.
She appeared in the kitchen, holding a glass of wine, her face flushed and calm. She looked at me through the door as if I were something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
I pressed my forehead to the glass.
“Brenda,” I begged, barely able to form the words. “Something’s wrong. Please. The baby.”
Her expression changed.
Not with concern.
With calculation.
She glanced toward the hallway, then back at me. Her mouth tightened.
“You should have thought about that before making everything about you,” she said.
Then she reached for the curtain.
And pulled it shut.
The world became gray fabric and cold.
For a few seconds, I could not understand what had happened. My mind refused to accept it. There had to be some mistake. No one could do that. No one could look at a pregnant woman in distress and simply shut her away.
But the curtain stayed closed.
The apartment sounds faded behind the glass. Laughter. A cabinet opening. Someone calling for Jacob. Brenda answering, too sweetly.
I tried to stand, but my legs folded underneath me.
The balcony floor was concrete. It held the cold like a grave.
I curled on my side, both arms around my belly, and whispered to my baby.
“Stay with me. Please stay with me.”
My teeth chattered so hard my jaw ached. My heartbeat slowed into heavy, uneven thuds. The cramps kept coming, one after another, but farther away somehow, as if they were happening to someone else.
The last thing I remember seeing was the corner of the curtain lifting.
A small face appeared.
Jacob’s niece, Lily.
She was seven years old, with wide brown eyes and a Thanksgiving ribbon still tied crookedly in her hair. She stared at me through the glass, and her mouth opened in a silent scream.
Then everything went black.
When I woke up, I was surrounded by white.
White ceiling. White walls. White blanket tucked tightly around me. A rhythmic beeping beside my head. The smell of antiseptic.
For one beautiful, terrible second, I thought I had lost the baby.
My hands flew to my stomach.
It was still there.
Round. Heavy. Warm beneath the hospital blanket.
A sob tore out of me.
“Easy,” a nurse said, appearing beside me. “You’re safe. Your baby has a heartbeat.”
I turned toward her so fast the room tilted.
“The baby?”
“Stable,” she said gently. “You had contractions, but we’ve managed to slow them for now. You’re on medication and we’re monitoring both of you closely.”
I tried to speak, but my throat felt raw.
The nurse held a straw to my lips.
“Your husband is outside,” she continued. “He’s been asking to see you.”
At the mention of Jacob, everything came rushing back.
The balcony.
The cold.
Brenda.
The curtain.
My body stiffened.
“How long?” I rasped.
The nurse hesitated.
“How long was I outside?”
Her face softened with something that looked like anger carefully hidden behind professionalism.
“According to the paramedics,” she said, “almost forty minutes.”
Forty minutes.
The number did not feel real.
I turned my head away and shut my eyes.
A few minutes. That was what Brenda had said.
You’ll survive a few minutes.
The door opened before I could answer. Jacob stepped inside.
He looked destroyed.
His hair was disheveled, his eyes red, his dress shirt wrinkled as though someone had been clutching it. The moment he saw me awake, he stopped in the doorway and covered his mouth with one hand.
“Emma,” he whispered.
I had imagined, in some faint place between unconsciousness and waking, that I would collapse into him. That I would cry against his chest and let him hold me.
But when I saw him, something colder than the balcony floor settled inside me.
Because he had spent years telling me Brenda was just difficult.
Just blunt.
Just protective.
Just Brenda.
And I had almost lost my child because no one wanted to name cruelty when it was standing in the middle of the room.
Jacob came to my bedside, tears spilling down his face.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know. Dad and I were downstairs longer than we thought. When we came back, Brenda said you were lying down in the bedroom.”
My lips parted.
“She said what?”
His face twisted.
“She told us you felt overwhelmed and went to rest. Mom said we should leave you alone.” His voice broke. “Then Lily started screaming that you were outside. I ran to the balcony and you were—”
He could not finish.
I remembered Lily’s little face at the glass.
My eyes burned.
“Where is Brenda?” I asked.
Jacob looked away.
“Down the hall. With my parents.”
A laugh escaped me, brittle and awful.
“Comforting her?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, Emma. They’re horrified.”
“Are they?”
He flinched.
I wanted to believe him. Some part of me still did. But pain has a way of clearing smoke from a room. It shows where everyone was standing when the fire started.
Before either of us could say more, the door opened again.
A doctor entered, followed by a second nurse and a woman in a navy blazer with an ID badge clipped to her pocket. The doctor was in her forties, with tired eyes and a calm expression that made me nervous.
“Mrs. Hale,” she said, “I’m Dr. Mason. I need to discuss some test results with you.”
Jacob straightened.
“Is the baby okay?”
“For now, yes. But there are concerns.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
Dr. Mason glanced at the woman in the blazer.
“This is Dana Morris, the hospital social worker. Because of the circumstances of your admission, we’re required to document what happened and make certain reports.”
Jacob’s face paled.
“Reports?”
Dr. Mason looked at him, then back at me.
“Emma, you were brought in with mild hypothermia, significant stress response, and preterm contractions. That alone is serious. But your bloodwork showed something else.”
The room went silent except for the monitor.
“What?” I asked.
Dr. Mason’s voice remained careful.
“There were traces of misoprostol in your system.”
I stared at her.
The word meant nothing to me at first. It sounded clinical, distant, harmless.
Jacob blinked. “What is that?”
Dr. Mason took a breath.
“It’s a medication that can cause uterine contractions. It has legitimate medical uses, but in pregnancy, especially at twenty-eight weeks, exposure without supervision can be dangerous.”
My ears started ringing.
“I didn’t take anything,” I said.
“We understand,” Dr. Mason replied. “That’s why we’re asking. Did anyone give you food, drink, or medication today that tasted unusual?”
The room tilted again.
Thanksgiving dinner.
The kitchen.
The sparkling cider Brenda had poured into my glass before dessert.
She had smiled when she handed it to me.
“Here,” she’d said. “You look like you need something special.”
I had taken three sips before deciding it tasted bitter.
I looked at Jacob.
He saw the realization on my face before I said a word.
“No,” he breathed.
I swallowed hard.
“Brenda gave me cider.”
Jacob stepped back as if someone had struck him.
Dr. Mason’s jaw tightened.
“We’ll need to document that.”
The social worker began writing.
I felt suddenly detached from my own body, as if I were watching the scene from above. The locked balcony was bad enough. Cruel enough. But this was different.
This had not been a cruel impulse.
This had been planned.
Jacob walked to the wall, pressed his palms against it, and bent his head. His shoulders shook once.
“I’m going to kill her,” he whispered.
“Jacob,” Dr. Mason said sharply. “Do not say that here.”
He turned around, tears shining in his eyes. “She tried to hurt my wife. She tried to hurt my child.”
