Chapter 1

My husband left me in the ultrasound clinic for another woman before the nurse even called my name.

One minute, his hand was on the small of my back. The next, his phone lit up with Brielle's name, and his hand was gone.

Brielle was his childhood friend and neighbor, the girl who lost her parents at six and was raised by her grandmother. Rowan had always been her protector, the brother she never had.

Her latest emergency was a blown water heater, a flooded basement, and the kind of panic Rowan never seemed able to ignore.

"I have to go," he said, already grabbing the car keys. "Brielle's water heater just blew and her basement's flooding. She's freaking out."

"Rowan," I said quietly, "this is the last appointment. The doctor needs to check how the baby's positioned."

He barely looked at me.

"Brielle doesn't have anyone else since her grandma passed, you know that," he said. "She only has me."

The way he said "me" was so light, as if I wasn't his wife and the baby inside me wasn't his.

Before I could answer, he turned and left, the clinic door clicking shut behind him.

It was a Thursday afternoon in late October. Rain hammered the clinic windows in unyielding sheets, and the exam room was sterile and cold.

I sat on the paper lined table with my swollen ankles dangling, staring at the empty chair where my husband was supposed to be.

Dr. Warren pressed the ultrasound wand against my belly, and the baby's strong, steady heartbeat filled the room.

"Is Dad running late?" she asked softly.

I didn't answer; we both already knew.

I had saved sixteen ultrasound printouts already, not for a scrapbook, but because every one of them told the truth.

Date, time, heartbeat. And at the bottom, the box the nurse always checked: Father present? No.

I never showed Rowan, just slid them into a manila envelope hidden behind my winter coats.

Dr. Warren cleared her throat, printed the page, and handed it to me with a tight, professional smile. I added it to the envelope. Number seventeen.

On the drive home, with the rain beating down on my windshield, I pulled up Instagram at a red light.

Brielle had just posted a photo: Rowan in her basement, sleeves rolled up and jeans soaked, laughing as he held a burst pipe. The caption read, "Don't know what I'd do without him. My hero, always."

My phone buzzed with a text from Rowan: "Home late. Brielle's a mess. Making her dinner so she can calm down."

I didn't reply.

Back home, I hauled myself up the stairs, pulled out the manila envelope, and slid number seventeen inside. As I rested my hand on my belly, the baby kicked against my palm.

I looked down at the thick envelope. Seventeen times I'd sat alone on that cold table, listening to my baby's heartbeat, with the Father present line marked No.

My fingers stopped at the flap, leaving it unsealed.

Then I picked up the phone and dialed a number I'd saved three weeks ago.

"Blackwell Family Law," a woman answered.

"I want to file for divorce," I told her. "And I want the papers ready to sign before this baby comes."