On Christmas Eve, my husband didn’t arrive, and when I called him, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “He can’t talk. He’s with his wife, giving birth to their baby.”

“He’s with his wife,” she repeated. “She’s in labor. He’s helping her through it.”

The line went dead.

My phone slipped from my hand and hit the floor. My legs felt like they might give out, and my mind raced.

His wife? Their baby?

What was she talking about?

I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt tight. I stumbled into the living room and sank onto the couch. The lights on the tree blurred as tears filled my eyes.

Was this some kind of mistake? A cruel joke? Or was it the truth?

I stared at the phone on the floor, willing it to ring again. My heart pounded in my ears.

I didn’t know what to believe.

I sat in Denise’s room, rocking her in the dim light from the small lamp on the dresser. She stirred in her sleep, her tiny hand curling around the edge of her blanket.

“I’m sorry, baby,” I whispered, brushing a tear from my cheek. “This isn’t how tonight was supposed to be.”

The weight in my chest was crushing. Christmas Eve, our first as a family, was ruined. Harold was gone, and I didn’t even know why. My heart ached as I looked at Denise’s peaceful face. I felt like I was failing her, letting my panic and hurt take over.