I went to see a different gynecologist. My husband had always used the word “protection” whenever he took something away from me. Then Dr. Reed shut off the ultrasound screen and asked me to sign an emergency imaging consent form after telling me, “There is something inside your body that should not be there.” My husband kept calling from outside.

The paper gown clung to my thighs when the air vent came on. I was seven months pregnant, sitting on an exam table inside a clinic Aaron had never approved of, trying to breathe as though everything were normal.

Dr. Natalie Reed had seemed warm when she first entered the room. She asked me about cravings, how I was sleeping, and whether I had experienced dizziness after the injections.
“Injections?” I repeated.

Her smile did not disappear immediately. It slowly faded, like a door being pushed shut.
She guided the ultrasound probe across my stomach again. The room filled with the quiet hum of the machine and the small clicking noise it made each time she saved an image. My son kicked sharply beneath her hand.

“Who was responsible for your previous appointments?” she asked.
“My husband,” I answered. “Aaron Mitchell. He’s an OB-GYN.”
Her fingers stopped moving.

Then she leaned across me and turned off the monitor.
For several seconds, all I could hear was the paper crinkling beneath my back and the rapid beat of my own pulse. Dr. Reed glanced at her nurse, then toward the door, and finally at the phone vibrating beside my purse.

Aaron.
His photo appeared on the screen. He was wearing his white coat and smiling like a man who had never once raised his voice. He called that smile concern when he told me I shouldn’t visit my parents. He called it caution when he canceled my trip to my cousin’s wedding. He called it protection when he took away my car keys.

Protection.
That word had followed me through my own home like another kind of lock.
“Don’t answer it,” Dr. Reed said.
The phone stopped ringing, then immediately began again.
Where are you?

The driver said you didn’t go to church.
Anna, answer the phone right now.
Dr. Reed gently removed the phone from my trembling hand and placed it facedown on the counter.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” she said, “I need your consent to officially document what I’ve found.”
“Is my baby all right?”

Before answering, she looked down at my stomach. That single look frightened me more than screaming ever could have.

“Your baby has a heartbeat,” she said. “But there is something inside you that is not supposed to be there.”
Both of my hands pressed flat against my belly.
“Inside me?”

She gave one small nod.
The nurse returned with a clipboard. It wasn’t the friendly intake paperwork I’d filled out at the reception desk. Across the top were the words emergency imaging consent, with my name and the clinic’s timestamp printed underneath.
My eyesight blurred.

“If I sign this,” I whispered, “will Aaron be able to see it?”
Dr. Reed placed a pen between my fingers.
“No,” she replied. “This record is already outside his system.”
For the first time that entire morning, I felt myself take a real breath.
I signed it.

The nurse collected blood. Dr. Reed labeled a urine container and placed every sample tube inside a transparent bag, making sure my name faced outward. She worked with the controlled urgency of someone trying to build a barrier before the flood reached the doorway.
“Has your husband been giving you anything at home?” she asked.
“Vitamin injections,” I said.

“Anything you’ve been drinking?”
I thought about Sylvia, my mother-in-law, standing beside my bed with polished silver cups in her hands and that endlessly patient expression on her face.
“Herbal drinks,” I answered. “Every morning.”
The nurse’s pen stopped moving.
Dr. Reed didn’t appear shocked. Instead, she looked furious in a way she was clearly struggling to hide.
Then the clinic’s doorbell sounded.

Once.
Twice.
The nurse rushed toward the security monitor. Her expression changed before she even spoke.
“Doctor,” she whispered, “it’s him.”
Dr. Reed turned the monitor so I could see.

Aaron was standing outside the glass entrance doors in his white coat. His hair was perfectly neat, but his chest was rising much too quickly. Sylvia stood next to him wearing her pearl earrings and soft cardigan, holding the exact same silver cup she carried into my bedroom every morning.

Aaron lifted his fist and struck the glass.
“Anna,” he shouted through the door. “Open the door.”
I jerked so violently that the paper beneath me ripped.

Sylvia didn’t knock at all. She simply lifted the cup slightly higher, almost as though she were presenting an offering.
Dr. Reed stepped closer to the security screen.
“Zoom in,” she instructed the nurse.
The nurse clicked the controls once.