Call me Sloane. I was 31, nine months pregnant, and counting down the days until my husband and I finally met our son. We already had a name picked out—Rowan. Everything in our life looked settled from the outside: four years of marriage, a shared house, shared finances, and a nursery waiting for its occupant. The week before my due date, Beckett changed. He was glued to his phone, smiling at messages he wouldn’t explain, flipping the screen face down whenever I walked past. When I asked what was going on, he brushed me off with a grin and a...
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