I’m pregnant with my second baby, and everyone kept warning me that the second time around would feel different. “You’ll be more emotional,” my mom said in that knowing tone mothers use when they’re just waiting for you to admit they were right. I remember rolling my eyes at her, insisting I was fine, that I felt steadier this time, more prepared, less panicked by every flutter and ache. With Tess, every symptom had felt like an emergency. This time, I told myself, I was seasoned. I knew what Braxton Hicks felt like. I knew swollen ankles were inevitable. I knew cravings could switch without warning.

What I didn’t know was that the emotional storm everyone predicted wouldn’t come from hormones at all. It would come from betrayal. During this pregnancy, I’d wanted nothing more than to retreat into the couch cushions with greasy takeout and whatever snack the baby demanded that hour. The outside world felt loud and exhausting. Socializing required energy I didn’t have. My body felt foreign some days—tight, heavy, unpredictable. Malcolm tried to be attentive, at least on the surface. He rubbed my feet when I asked. He picked up prenatal vitamins when I forgot. He kissed my belly before leaving for work.