The dawn didn’t just break over their quiet Nashville neighborhood that morning; it seemed to spill through the oak trees in a slow, heavy wash of pale gold, illuminating a house that had been completely transformed.

Erin Krakow stood in the center of the kitchen, feeling the distinct, heavy ache in her lower back that had become her constant companion over the last month.

She was eight months pregnant, dressed in a pair of soft, worn-out gray leggings and one of Ben’s oversized collegiate sweaters that swallowed her frame but provided a strange, grounding comfort.

With one hand, she instinctively pressed against the underside of her belly, supporting the sudden, sharp kick of their unborn child.

In her other hand, she held a mug of peppermint tea.

It had gone completely cold twenty minutes earlier, the ceramic now cool against her palms, but she hadn’t had the heart to pour it down the sink.

She just stood there, breathing in the quiet of the morning, taking inventory of the absolute chaos that had swallowed their home.

The kitchen counters, usually a pristine expanse of white marble, were currently buried.

It looked less like a domestic space and more like the staging area for a major tactical operation.

There were baby bottles still encased in their sterile plastic packaging, waiting for a final boil.

Beside them sat a towering stack of organic cotton swaddles, folded with a precision that bordered on military.

There were three different types of phone chargers coiled neatly, a massive canvas tote overflowing with snacks specifically curated for labor—almonds, dried mango, hydration packets, and dark chocolate—and, perhaps most telling of all, a printed checklist.

Ben had made it three nights ago.

It was color-coded, heavily highlighted, and broken down into distinct geographical zones of the hospital.

He was treating the impending birth of their child as if he were outfitting an expedition to the summit of Everest.

And Ben Rosenbaum was everywhere at once.

He moved through the house with a frenetic, humming energy that seemed entirely at odds with the stillness of the morning.

From the kitchen island, Erin watched him march out to the hallway, drop to one knee, and aggressively test the tension on the infant car seat straps for what had to be the fourth time since sunrise.

He tugged at the nylon webbing, muttering something under his breath about the chest clip alignment, before nodding in terse satisfaction.

A moment later, he was back in the living room, wielding a canister of antibacterial wipes, methodically sanitizing the telescopic handles on the rolling luggage they had packed for her.

“Ben,” Erin called out softly, a faint, exhausted smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“The handles are clean, honey.

You cleaned them last night.

And yesterday afternoon.”

He didn’t look up immediately.