They took swabs from all of us—me, Ryan, and our newborn, who whimpered softly in my arms. The lab said the results would take a few days. Ryan walked around acting triumphant, telling people he only wanted “peace of mind.”
On the third day, my OB asked me to come back in for a brief consultation. Ryan didn’t bother coming. He said he was busy.
I arrived alone, my baby strapped to my chest, expecting a routine conversation—or maybe an apology delivered through a professional smile.
Instead, the doctor walked in holding a sealed envelope, her face drained of color.
She didn’t sit down.
She looked straight at me and said, in a low, steady voice,
“You need to call the police.”
My heart began hammering so violently I could feel it in my throat.
“The police?” I asked, panic flooding my voice. “Why? Did Ryan do something?”
Dr. Patel placed the envelope on her desk but didn’t open it. Her tone was careful, deliberate. “I want to choose my words very precisely,” she said. “This isn’t about relationship issues. This concerns a possible crime—and your baby’s safety.”
