I believed her.
Marcus, her boyfriend, seemed nervous but committed. He painted the nursery, built three cribs, and complained about hospital parking like any expectant father. I went to appointments whenever Vanessa asked.
By the final month, she was huge, exhausted, and constantly joking that motherhood had already ruined her bladder.
Nothing felt wrong.
The day she was due, I texted at breakfast.
No answer.
I called at lunch.
Voicemail.
By evening, Marcus wasn’t answering either.
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