Chapter 6 - The Longest Night
The hours that followed blurred into a surreal, sterile nightmare of beeping monitors, latex gloves, cold ultrasound gel, and urgent medical jargon whispered between doctors.
I was wheeled into an exam room, hooked up to an IV, and subjected to a battery of tests. An obstetrician named Dr. Vance—a calm, silver-haired woman whose demeanor radiated quiet competence—pressed a handheld ultrasound probe across my lower abdomen.
The room was deathly quiet except for the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the equipment.
I held my breath, staring up at the white acoustic tile ceiling, tears leaking silently from the corners of my eyes. Preston stood beside the bed, his hand fused with mine, his lips moving in silent prayers.
“There,” Dr. Vance said softly, pointing to the grainy black-and-white monitor.
A tiny, rhythmic white flicker pulsed on the screen.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
A sob tore out of my throat, and I buried my face in my free hand. Beside me, Preston let out a ragged, shuddering breath that sounded like a man who had just been pulled from a freezing lake.
“Heart rate is strong, around 140,” Dr. Vance said, her eyes fixed on the readout. “You’ve experienced a significant placental abruption scare brought on by physical trauma and extreme stress. The bleeding has slowed down, but you are experiencing early uterine contractions.”
She turned her attention to me, her expression turning serious.
“At twenty-four weeks, every single day counts. We need to admit you immediately to the antepartum unit for strict bed rest, magnesium sulfate to stop the contractions, and round-the-clock fetal monitoring. If the bleeding starts up again or the contractions intensify, we may have to deliver via emergency C-section.”
“Do whatever it takes,” Preston said immediately, his voice unwavering. “Whatever keeps them safe.”
By evening, I was settled into Room 412 of the hospital’s high-risk maternity wing. The window looked out over the glowing lights of Denver, the city humming peacefully while my entire world hung in the balance.
My mother called twice, crying hysterically, begging for updates. Preston took the calls in the hallway. When he returned to the room, his face was stony and exhausted.
“How are they?” I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying.
“Your father kicked Marissa and Kyle out of the house immediately after we left,” Preston said quietly, sitting in the hard plastic chair beside my bed. “He told Marissa not to come back until she learned how to treat her own family. She tried to call me, but I blocked her number.”
I closed my eyes, feeling a profound wave of grief wash over me. Not just for the terror of the afternoon, but for the irrevocable fracture in my family. Marissa had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. She had wished death upon her own niece in a fit of jealous rage.
“Do you think she meant it?” I asked softly.
Preston leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to my knuckles. “People who act out of deep, consuming bitterness always mean things in the moment, Sarah. But that doesn’t mean they get to dictate the rest of our lives. Right now, your only job—our only job—is inside this room.”
May you like
Days bled into one another. For two weeks, I lay flat on my back in Room 412, staring at the ceiling, turning on my side only when the nurses allowed it. Preston slept in the uncomfortable recliner beside my bed every single night, going into federal court during the day only when his docket required it, and returning immediately afterward with a laptop and a bag of takeout food.
The contractions eventually subsided under medication. The bleeding stopped. Every morning, Dr. Vance came in with the Doppler, and every morning, we heard that sweet, stubborn little heartbeat rhythmically echoing through the room.
