We had been trying to have a baby for two years. It nearly destroyed us. I want to say that up front because the context matters. By the time I got pregnant with our daughter Emory, my marriage to Mason was something I was holding together with both hands — I had been through two miscarriages and one round of IVF that didn't take, and somewhere in the fog of all that grief, my husband had gone from being my partner to being a man I lived with who said the right things at the right times but never quite looked at me the way he used to. I noticed. I didn't mention it. I was too tired. And when the ultrasound at sixteen weeks finally showed a healthy heartbeat, I let myself believe that this would fix us. A baby would fix us. The way I had been raised to believe a baby fixes things. A baby does not fix things. A baby reveals things. And what it revealed about Mason almost killed me.