Chapter 2: Cold Comfort

Clutching those two wrinkled pieces of paper, my mind was spinning.

My hands trembled so badly I nearly dropped the papers. The room felt smaller, the walls inching closer, pressing the air from my lungs. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the suitcase half-packed, my eyes bouncing from the documents to the framed photos on the dresser—Natalie and I on our Vermont hiking trip, Natalie laughing in the sunlight. The world tilted. I pressed my thumb hard into the crease of the summary as if the pressure would make sense of any of it.

A child? A miscarriage?

The words bounced around my skull, stubborn as a migraine. It was as if the universe had played a sick joke on me. My breath came short, and for a moment, the room seemed to tilt, everything off-balance.

My first reaction was: Impossible.

No way. Not us. Not her. I tried to conjure some rational explanation—some alternate reality—but nothing came.