I still remember the exact way the diner’s neon sign flickered that afternoon, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to stay lit or give up entirely. In a strange way, it matched how I felt inside. Half of me was desperately trying to hold on, to keep believing that things would get better, that Briggs would soften, that becoming parents would change him. The other half of me was already exhausted beyond words, already bracing for disappointment, already shrinking into myself to survive.

I was sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, my hands folded tightly in my lap, trying to steady the dizziness that kept washing over me in slow, nauseating waves. Being pregnant with twins had turned my body into unfamiliar territory. My back ached constantly. My feet felt swollen before noon. My heart raced for no reason. Hunger came suddenly and violently, leaving me shaky and weak if I ignored it for even a short time. But asking for anything felt dangerous. Briggs liked to say he was a provider, liked to remind me that he paid for everything, liked to present himself as generous and selfless.