The nearest hospital was about a mile away. Fifteen minutes in normal conditions. In this rain, walking the shoulder of a flooded highway, it would take at least thirty. My skirt soaked through within the first block and clung to my legs with every step. The water on the pavement was ankle-deep in places.

Three blocks from the hospital entrance, I hit a stretch of sidewalk that the city had been repairing. The construction tape had blown down in the wind and nobody had put it back up. I stepped on a loose paving stone.

My foot slid. I went down sideways, my lower back catching the curb first, then the rest of me hitting the wet concrete.

A man walking past stopped and crouched down. I told him I was pregnant. He called 911 without another word.

"Mrs. Holloway?" My thoughts were interrupted by the doctor. "The fetal heartbeat has stopped. We need to perform surgery immediately.

A nurse handed me the consent form on a clipboard. The signature line read: Patient and Spouse/Next of Kin.

I signed my own name in both spaces. In the spouse field, I drew a single horizontal line.

The nurse looked at it. Then at me. She didn't say anything.

They wheeled me through the waiting area on a gurney. The wall-mounted television above the corridor was broadcasting sports coverage - a live feed from a charity ski race in Aspen. Holloway Global Group was listed as the title sponsor. The camera cut to the VIP viewing platform.

Damien stood there in a dark coat. Camille was beside him. Rosalind was in front of them both, bundled in a bright red jacket, beaming at the interviewer who crouched down to her level.

"Sweetie, are these your family?"

Rosalind looked up at the camera, delighted, and pointed.

"Yes! That's my mama and dad!"

She was pointing at Damien and Camille.

The camera caught Damien laughing softly, reaching down to ruffle Rosalind's hair. Camille rested her hand on his arm. Natural. Easy. Like they had been doing this for years.

The gurney turned the corner. The television disappeared.

I stared at the ceiling tiles.

When I came out of the anesthesia, the doctor was already speaking. The procedure had gone smoothly. However, there was significant uterine scarring. Future pregnancies would be very difficult. He recommended a follow-up consultation with a specialist.

I nodded.

The room was empty except for the doctor and a nurse standing near the door.

I picked up my phone. Opened my messages. Found my mother's contact and started to type. Then I stopped.

My last message to her was three months ago, when I'd told her I was pregnant.

Her reply was still there on the screen.

Elise, hopefully this will keep Damien home more. Don't mess it up this time.

No congratulations. No how are you feeling. Just: don't mess it up this time.

I already knew what she would say now. She'd said it three months ago. There was nothing new to ask.

I closed the app.

The doctor left. The nurse followed. I turned my face toward the wall and let the tears go where they wanted - down my cheek, into the pillow, quietly, without anyone watching.

I thought about how this baby had started. Rosalind had asked for a sibling, curled up in Damien's lap one evening, wheedling and sweet. Damien had looked across the room at me and said it would be good to complete the family.

Complete the family.

I spent three days in that hospital room. No visitors. No flowers. No cards. No calls.

I discharged myself, settled the bill, and ordered an Uber from the entrance. My car was still on the shoulder of the 405. I left it there.

January air cut through my coat while I waited at the curb. My body ached in layers - the bruised lower back, the surgical soreness, the cold that found every gap in my clothing.

Standing there, I made myself three promises. No more waiting by the phone for a man who declines my calls. No more believing words that were never backed by anything real. No more calling indifference love.

The Uber pulled up. I got in.

Halfway to the Holloway estate, my phone buzzed. An email from the Aether Life Sciences PR department. Subject line: Annual New Year Charity Gala – Family Member Invitation.

I opened it.

The body of the email welcomed me as a family member to the company's annual charity dinner. The hosts were listed as Mr. Damien Holloway and Ms. Camille.

I scrolled to the attached event poster. Center frame: Damien, Camille, Rosalind. The caption read: Hosted by the Holloway Family.