With a heavy heart, I held my belly and slowly shuffled out of the hospital. My back ached. The baby shifted, pressing against my ribs in a way that made each step feel deliberate, earned. I moved through the automatic doors and into the night, and the scene outside was no less cruel.
The rain had started.
Not a gentle autumn mist but a real rain, cold and committed, the kind that turned the parking lot into a field of small explosions where each drop hit the asphalt. The cold autumn wind blew against me, cutting through the thin fabric of my coat, and the rain felt like it was trying to drown the world in its chill. The parking lot lights cast long orange smears across the wet ground, and through the mist, through the blur of water on my eyelashes, I watched.