They had spent the entire last week suffocating in readiness.

Every conceivable preparation had already been made.

Erin had personally washed every tiny onesie, every pair of mittens, and every receiving blanket not once, but twice, using a special, unscented detergent that cost entirely too much money.

Ben had taken the car seat to the local fire station, then to the hospital, and had practically cornered two veteran nurses at the end of their final maternity class, begging them to inspect the base installation from every conceivable angle until they finally assured him it could withstand a meteor strike.

Upstairs, the nursery was a sanctuary of completed tasks.

It smelled faintly of fresh, non-toxic linen-white paint and the dried lavender sachets Erin had tucked into the dresser drawers.

The bassinet stood proudly beside their bed, made up with crisp, fitted sheets.

The deep freezer in the garage was packed to the brim with labeled glass Tupperware—lasagnas, chicken soups, and enchiladas that their friends had dropped off over the weekend.

They were out of things to prepare.

They were completely, undeniably ready.

So why did it suddenly feel like Ben was secretly preparing for something she knew absolutely nothing about?

The morning dragged into the early afternoon, the phantom tension in the house thickening with every passing hour.

The moment that finally unsettled her completely, the moment that fractured the fragile illusion of their quiet Saturday, came just after noon.

Erin’s back had flared up again, a deep, radiating ache that wrapped around her pelvis and made it hard to breathe.

The baby had shifted positions, pressing a tiny, hard foot directly against her ribs all morning, leaving her breathless and exhausted.

She set her empty mug down on the counter and began the slow, arduous climb up the wooden staircase, intending to lie down in the bedroom and elevate her swollen feet.

As she reached the top landing, the floorboards creaking softly beneath her weight, she paused to catch her breath.

To her left was the guest room, the door pushed halfway open.

The room had become the designated staging area for their hospital bags—her large leather weekender, his small duffel, and the baby’s diaper bag.

Through the gap in the doorway, Erin saw him.

Ben was kneeling on the carpet beside her open overnight bag.

His back was to her, but she could see the rigid line of his shoulders.

His body language was entirely different from the manic, bustling energy of the morning.

Here, he was completely still, save for his hands, which were moving with a hurried, secretive desperation.

Erin held her breath, instinctively stepping back into the shadows of the hallway.

She watched, her heart beginning to thump a heavy, erratic rhythm against her ribs.

From the inner breast pocket of his jacket, Ben pulled out an envelope.