There was writing on the outside.

It was Ben’s handwriting.

She would know the sharp, slanted architecture of his letters anywhere.

But it wasn’t his usual neat, architectural print.

The words were erratic.

Rushed.

Pressed so hard into the paper that the ink bled slightly into the fibers.

“If today changes everything, tell her I tried to make it perfect.”

For a moment, the entire house seemed to go completely, suffocatingly silent.

The hum of the refrigerator stopped.

The ticking of the clock vanished.

All the air was sucked from the room, leaving her standing in a vacuum.

Erin read it again.

Then again.

If today changes everything.

Her heartbeat, normally a steady, reliable rhythm, suddenly turned violent and uneven.

It hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

A hundred different explanations tried to arrive at once, crashing into each other in her panicked mind, and absolutely none of them felt harmless.

If today changes everything.

Was he afraid something terrible was going to happen at the appointment?

Had Dr. Evans called him directly with the results of her last blood panel?

Had they found a defect in the final ultrasound that he had sworn he hadn’t looked at yet?

Had he learned something devastating about the baby’s heart rate?

About her own health?

Was she showing signs of preeclampsia that he had Googled and hidden from her to keep her blood pressure down?

Why would a man—a man who loved her so fiercely it sometimes hurt to look at him—write something like that, something so profoundly final, unless he believed there was a very real, very imminent chance that their lives were about to violently split into a before and an after?

Her hands began to shake.

The thick paper rattled slightly between her fingers.

She couldn’t catch her breath.

The baby kicked, a hard, sharp jab against her side, as if sensing the sudden spike of pure adrenaline flooding her system.

She was still standing perfectly still, staring blankly at the ink, when the sound of footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Ben walked back into the room, sliding his leather wallet into his back pocket, a forced, overly-bright smile pasted on his face.

“Alright, got it.

We should probably hit the road if we want to avoid the school traffic on—”

He stopped cold.

The words died in his throat.

His eyes dropped from her face to her trembling hands, and finally, to the folded piece of cardstock she was gripping like a lifeline.

His face lost all color.

The flush of the morning, the manic energy, it all drained away in a split second, leaving his skin a pale, ashen gray.

He looked entirely hollowed out.

Neither of them spoke for one suspended, agonizing second.

The silence stretched between them, thin and fragile as spun glass.