“Get up, you lazy cow! Do you think being pregnant makes you a queen? Get downstairs and cook for my parents NOW!” At 5 a.m., my husband dragged me out of bed while his parents laughed. As I collapsed in pain, they had no idea I had already sent a message that would save my life….

The house on Elm Street was painted a cheerful shade of yellow, the kind of color that suggested warmth, Sunday roasts, and happy children playing in the yard. To the neighbors, we were the perfect family. Daniel was the charming architect; I was the successful graphic designer; his parents were the doting grandparents-to-be who visited often.

But inside, at 4:55 a.m., the air was not warm. It was freezing, heavy with a toxic silence that pressed against my chest harder than the baby growing inside me.

I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. I hadn’t slept. At six months pregnant, sleep was elusive anyway, but fear was the real thief. I listened to the rhythm of Daniel’s breathing beside me. In sleep, he looked like an angel. Awake, he was a landmine, and I never knew where to step.