At two in the morning, twenty-six weeks pregnant with twins, I fell in my kitchen, felt a warm rush between my legs, and realized the one person who had promised to protect me was refusing to answer his phone.

Chapter 1

“Please,” I whispered as I called Mark for the fourth time. “Please pick up.”

Straight to voicemail.

A hard pain tightened across my stomach. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter and tried to breathe through it, but panic was already rising in my throat. Outside, a late-December frost had turned the Columbus streets silver. Inside our little rental house, I was barefoot on cold tile with my water broken far too early and no idea whether my babies were safe.

I had been foolish enough to climb onto a step stool to clean the kitchen window. Mark had complained the night before that the house was starting to look neglected, and I had wanted to prove I could still manage things. The stool shifted under my weight, and I went down hard on one hip.

Now another contraction seized me.

“Okay, boys,” I whispered, pressing both hands to my belly. “Stay with Mommy.”

I tried Mark again. Nothing.

My fingers shook as I scrolled through my contacts. I meant to call Mrs. Reynolds from two houses down, but pain hit at the same moment my thumb touched the screen. A message went out before I even saw the name.

Please help me. My water broke. Mark isn’t answering. I’m scared.

The reply came less than ten seconds later.

I’m coming. Unlock the door.

I stared at the name.

Daniel Brooks.

Mark’s boss.

“Oh, God.”

Daniel was the operations director at the distribution company where Mark supervised a warehouse crew. I had met him twice at company picnics, enough to recognize his calm voice and silver-streaked hair but certainly not enough to summon him into the middle of the night during a medical emergency.

I tried to type an apology.

Another contraction stopped me.

Fifteen minutes later, headlights swept across the living room wall. Daniel came through the unlocked front door wearing jeans, work boots, and a winter coat thrown over what looked like a pajama shirt.

“Emily?”

“In here.”

He found me sitting on the floor beside the couch, crying silently.

His face changed immediately.

“We’re going to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry. I meant to text my neighbor.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Mark won’t answer.”

Daniel looked at my phone, then at me. He did not criticize my husband. He did not ask why a woman in premature labor had been left alone. He simply picked up the hospital bag beside the stairs, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and helped me stand.

That simple kindness nearly broke me.

At Riverside Methodist, nurses rushed me through a set of double doors while Daniel handled the paperwork I was too frightened to understand. Monitors were strapped around my belly. An IV went into my arm. Voices moved quickly around me, using words like premature and fetal distress.

“Where’s the father?” a nurse asked.

“I don’t know.”

I sent Mark another message.

I’m at the hospital. The babies are coming. Please answer.

Nothing.

The contractions grew stronger. Doctors hoped to delay the delivery, but before sunrise, one of the babies’ heart rates began dropping.

“We can’t wait,” the obstetrician told me.

I wanted my mother.

She had been dead seven years.

I wanted Mark.

He had apparently decided he did not want me.

So when a nurse asked whether there was anyone I wanted nearby before they took me for an emergency delivery, I heard myself say, “Daniel’s outside.”

Daniel came in only long enough to squeeze my hand.

“You’re not alone,” he said.

Those four words mattered more than he could have known.

By morning, my sons were born.

Ethan weighed barely two pounds. Luke was slightly smaller. They were rushed to the neonatal intensive care unit before I could do more than touch one tiny foot.

I lay exhausted in recovery staring at the unread messages on my phone.

Six calls.

Nine texts.

Not one answer.

Daniel remained at the hospital until a nurse assured him I was stable. Before leaving, he stood awkwardly beside my bed.

“I can call somebody for you.”

“There isn’t anybody.”

He looked at me for a long moment.

“All right. Then call me if you need something.”

I almost laughed. “You’ve already done more than enough.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I did what anyone should have done.”

That sentence stayed with me.

Because my own husband had not done it.

Three days later, when I was finally strong enough to leave the hospital, Daniel drove me home. The twins were still in the NICU, too small to come with me, and I felt as if half my body had been left behind with them.

As we pulled into the driveway, I noticed Mark’s truck was gone.

Then I opened the front door.

The television was missing.

So was the gaming system.

His jackets were gone from the hall closet. His dresser drawers stood open upstairs, empty except for an old sock and a handful of loose change.

“What happened?” Daniel asked behind me.

I could not answer.

On the kitchen counter was a folded sheet of notebook paper.

Emily,

I can’t do this anymore. Twins weren’t what I signed up for. I need a different life. Don’t call me. My attorney will contact you.

Mark.

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

Daniel gently took the paper when my hands began shaking.

“He left,” I whispered.

Daniel’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing cruel. He simply pulled out a chair before my knees gave way.

I covered my face.

For months, Mark had mocked my changing body and complained about my exhaustion. He had called me lazy when I could barely bend over to tie my shoes. I had told myself it was stress, fear, anything except what it really was.

Now I finally understood.

My husband had not merely ignored my calls while I was in labor.

He had been leaving us.

And one week later, a drunken midnight phone call would reveal that abandoning his newborn sons was not the worst thing Mark had done.