She looked at me, eyes filled with excruciating pain and profound, unfamiliar terror. "David... belly..." she gasped, each word a life's effort, "so much pain... the baby..." Baby? The word detonated in my skull. My blood turned to ice. Three months ago... a mumbled comment about irregular periods... then 'back to normal'. She took the pill... My eyes snapped to the nightstand. That small white blister pack stood isolated beside the lamp. The top row full. The next row nearly untouched. Dust filmed the plastic. My mind screamed. She stopped? When? Why didn't she tell me?!
The Pill
Three months of changes? Her tiredness? Lack of appetite? Her unconscious hand resting protectively on her belly? All the signs I'd dismissed as work stress or gym fatigue clawed back, bloody truth slapping my face. Overwhelming absurdity and crushing regret consumed me. Pregnant? Our child? Like this... I scrambled for the nightstand phone, fingers fumbling the buttons. "911! HELP! My wife fell! Massive bleeding! She might be pregnant! Address is..." I screamed into the phone, voice unrecognizable. My heart battered my ribs. Eyes fixed on the expanding dark stain.
Cops Arrive
Ryan slumped on the rug, vacant, muttering: "Didn't know... didn't know she was pregnant..." Sirens wailed, shattering the silence. Heavy footsteps pounded. Police and paramedics flooded in simultaneously. Flashing red lights painted the walls. The room teemed. Uniformed officers separated us, faces grim. Medics rushed Emily with stretchers, oxygen. Efficient movements: checking, stemming blood, stabilizing. A female officer crouched near me, firing questions. I jabbed a finger at Ryan, incoherent. "HE pushed her! Into the dresser!"
NEXT >> 
