I told no one.
“Emma,” Dr. Patel didn’t move. “I mean it. If anything at home is making rest hard, anything, you tell me. That’s what I’m here for.”
For a second, my throat closed.
Then I tucked my hands under my thighs and changed the subject to swaddle brands.
***
At home, Ryan had started whistling in the mornings, making eggs, and kissing my forehead as if nothing were wrong, like his wife hadn’t spent the night folded into a Toyota like a lawn chair.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
***
Some nights, curled up in that back seat with the streetlight buzzing over me, I’d stare at the ceiling upholstery and ask myself if I was overreacting. Maybe pregnancy was making me dramatic. Maybe it was normal. Maybe every woman just quietly slept in her car for a few weeks, and no one talked about it.
