The first scream tore out of me at 3:07 a.m., a raw sound that didn’t even feel like it belonged to my body. By six, the contractions were stacked like storm waves, breaking faster than I could breathe. Eight months pregnant, alone in my childhood bedroom, I gripped the doorframe and did the math every woman does when fear starts whispering: too soon, too strong, too close together. “Mom—Dad—something’s wrong with the baby.” My voice cracked in the hallway. Silk robe, perfect hair, diamonds like