Lena wasn’t supposed to be home for another hour.
She stood frozen in the doorway of her own living room, the crisp white envelope from Dr. Chen’s office trembling in her hand. The late afternoon sun slanted through the bay window, casting golden rectangles across the hardwood floor—the same floor she’d scrubbed on her hands and knees just last week while Mark “worked late.” The nursery down the hall still smelled faintly of fresh paint: buttercup yellow, soft and hopeful, chosen after three hours of Pinterest scrolling and whispered dreams over takeout containers.
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