The Night He Threw Me the Keys
At thirty-four weeks pregnant, I was carrying more than our unborn daughter.
I was carrying pain in my lower back, pressure beneath my ribs, swollen ankles, constant exhaustion—and a secret so humiliating that I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone.
Every night, while my husband slept comfortably in our apartment, I slept in our car.
It started on a Tuesday at three in the morning.
Our daughter had been especially active that night. Every time I found a comfortable position, a tiny foot pressed against my ribs or my bladder sent me stumbling toward the bathroom again.
I rolled onto my left side.
Then my right.
I adjusted the pregnancy pillow, sat up, took a sip of water, and tried lying down again.
Beside me, my husband, Ryan, let out an angry groan.
A few seconds later, he suddenly sat up.
