At my last prenatal checkup, the doctor stared at the ultrasound his hands shaking. In a low voice he said, “You need to leave here and get away from your husband.”
The fluorescent lights in the exam room pulsed dimly, emitting a soft buzz like a jittery insect caught behind glass. Emma Harris shifted uncomfortably on the cushioned table, one hand gently cradling her rounded belly. At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, she was weary but filled with anticipation—this appointment was meant to be her final checkup…
