A House in Chaos
The front door was ajar, a thin sliver of light spilling into the hallway. The moment I stepped inside, my breath caught.
The apartment looked like someone had tried to rearrange grief. Cushions lay scattered across the floor, a lamp tilted on its side, shards of crystal glinting like tiny, glittering wounds. On the kitchen table, a vase had split apart, its flowers splayed open as if someone had exhaled and never breathed in again.
And there — in the center of the chaos — was Sophie.
She lay on the floor, the color gone from her cheeks. Her hand pressed against her belly as if that alone would hold everything in place. Breath came in quick shallow waves. Her eyes fluttered but did not open.
My world narrowed until the only thing that existed was her. I dropped to my knees beside her and called for an ambulance with fingers that would not stop shaking. Someone had already dialed 911 by the time the paramedics burst through the door, efficient and calm in a way that made my raw panic feel absurd.
At the hospital, the urgency escalated. The doctor’s words — clipped, professional — landed like stones. “Emergency C-section,” she said. “The mother is unconscious. We have to act now to protect the baby.”
