Week twenty-one arrived with a suffocating weight Emma hadn't anticipated.
She'd been in the hospital for eight weeks. Fifty-six days of the same room, same routine, same mounting dread. The walls felt closer every day, the ceiling tiles more oppressive, the beeping monitors like a countdown to disaster.
Halfway. She was halfway through the pregnancy. Twenty-one weeks down, approximately nineteen to go if her body cooperated. If the placenta percreta didn't cause catastrophic hemorrhage. If Daniel didn't decide to come early. If, if, if.
Emma woke at 4 AM on Monday, drenched in sweat from a nightmare she couldn't quite remember. Just fragments—blood, doctors shouting, Alexander's face contorted in grief. The same nightmare that had plagued her for weeks.
She reached for her phone, needing distraction. Twitter was a mistake—immediately she saw a trending topic: #SterlingPregnancy.
Against her better judgment, Emma clicked.
