"Sophia, why do you always have to make yourself suffer? You did nothing wrong!" Daniel's voice grew sharp with irritation, his anger completely misdirected. "Remember last time, when she claimed her stomach hurt? I left you to rush to her side, and what happened? Absolutely nothing! Meanwhile, you couldn’t sleep all night because of the thunderstorm, and I wasn’t there for you!"
His words slammed into me like a brick. He was talking about that rainy night—the night I fell. My mind scrambled to remember the details through the haze of hurt. It was the night I had slipped on the wet pavement, pain ripping through me as I clutched my stomach. Our two-month-old fetus was fragile, and I had lain there, drenched and freezing, waiting for Daniel. The fear of losing our baby was overwhelming. But he never came. Not for hours. If a kind stranger hadn’t found me and driven me to the hospital, our baby wouldn’t have made it.
Yet, to Daniel, my near-miscarriage had been nothing more than a "false alarm," overshadowed by Sophia’s sleepless night.