Part One — The Conversation I Was Never Supposed to Hear
My name is Natalie Whitaker.
At the time, I was thirty-four years old, married for six years, and thirty-eight weeks pregnant with my first child.
Grant had insisted we deliver at St. Catherine Medical Center outside Chicago.
He said it had the best maternity unit in the state.
He also insisted that Dr. Adrian Ross handle my delivery.
Adrian was respected, discreet, expensive, and—according to Grant—“the kind of doctor rich families trusted.”
That wording bothered me later.
At the time, it sounded reassuring.
The night before my daughter was born, I was admitted after my blood pressure climbed and my contractions became irregular.
Grant stayed beside me all evening.
He ordered dinner.
Massaged my feet.
Texted our relatives.
Took a photograph of himself kissing my forehead and sent it to our family group chat with the caption:
Tomorrow we meet our girl.
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