My name is Hannah Lewis, 31 years old, from Seattle, Washington.
I was four months pregnant — a miracle my husband and I had prayed for.

My husband, Mark Lewis, was everything I thought I wanted in a man: kind, funny, successful in his job as a financial consultant. We’d been married for three years and had spent the last two trying desperately for a baby.

When that second line appeared on the pregnancy test, I cried — tears of relief, of gratitude, of love. Mark lifted me up and spun me around the living room, whispering,

“We’re finally going to be parents.”

From that moment on, every day felt like sunlight. I knitted tiny hats, painted the nursery walls a soft yellow, and imagined what our baby’s laugh would sound like.

Until that morning at the hospital — the day everything changed.

It was supposed to be just another routine appointment at St. Mary’s Medical Center. Mark said he couldn’t come — he had a meeting — but promised we’d celebrate afterward with dinner.

So I went alone, smiling as I lay down on the exam table, pulling up my sweater to reveal the round curve of my belly.

The doctor, Dr. Richard Morgan, was an older man — calm, experienced, someone who’d probably seen thousands of expectant mothers before me. He began the ultrasound, chatting casually:

“Four months along, right? Any morning sickness?”

I laughed and told him about my constant cravings for pickles and how Mark teased me about it. But after a few minutes, his tone changed.

He grew silent. His brows furrowed. His hand holding the ultrasound probe began to tremble slightly.

I frowned.

“Doctor? Is… is something wrong with my baby?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at the screen, eyes wide. Then he swallowed hard, printed out the scan, and turned to me.

His voice was low, shaking.

“The baby looks fine,” he said. “But there’s something else… something I need to tell you. Please, listen carefully.”

I could feel my pulse hammering in my ears.

“You need to stay away from your husband,” he said finally. “For your sake… and for the baby’s.”

I blinked.

“What? Why? What are you talking about?”

He hesitated, clearly struggling between professional ethics and conscience.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he murmured, “but I’ve treated your husband before. I can’t give you details — it’s confidential — but the results from his last exam were… dangerous. He should have told you. He should never have kept this secret.”

The room began to spin. I clutched the paper in my hands, knuckles white.

“What kind of results?” I whispered. “What does that mean? Is my baby in danger?”

Dr. Morgan sighed heavily, eyes full of pity.

“I don’t know yet. We’ll need to do more tests for you and the baby. But you still have time to protect yourself.
Please, Hannah — avoid him until we know more. Don’t go back home tonight.”

His voice cracked at the end, as if even saying it weighed on his soul.

I left the hospital in a daze. The busy Seattle streets blurred into streaks of color — people laughing, cars honking, life moving on — while my world crumbled silently.

What secret could Mark be hiding that made a doctor this afraid?

Mark came home early that evening, holding a bouquet of red roses.

“Guess what?” he grinned. “We closed the biggest deal of the year! How’s our little peanut doing?”

I stared at him, my throat dry. The man in front of me — the man who kissed my forehead every morning — suddenly felt like a stranger.

I forced a smile.

“Everything’s fine,” I lied.
“The doctor said the baby’s healthy.”

He kissed me, and for the first time, I felt nothing but fear.

That night, as he slept peacefully beside me, I lay awake, one hand resting on my belly, the other gripping the edge of the blanket.
Dr. Morgan’s words echoed in my mind:

“Stay away from him. Don’t ever go back.”

The next morning, I packed a small bag — just clothes, vitamins, and my ultrasound picture.
I told Mark I was visiting my mother in Oregon for a few weeks to “rest.” He didn’t question it. He just kissed me goodbye and told me to call when I arrived.

I drove for six hours straight, tears blurring my vision.
When I finally reached my mother’s home, she opened the door, alarmed.

“Hannah, what’s wrong?”

I couldn’t answer. I just hugged her and whispered,

“I need to stay here for a while.”

That night, my phone buzzed endlessly — missed calls, unread messages:

“Where are you?”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Please, come home.”

But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t risk the baby.

Each time my phone lit up with Mark’s name, I remembered the fear in Dr. Morgan’s eyes.

I don’t know what my husband is hiding. I don’t know if he’s sick, or dangerous, or both.
Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to find out.

But for now, I only know one thing:
There’s a heartbeat inside me that depends on me — and me alone.

So I’ll stay away.
I’ll protect this child, even if it means living with questions that may never be answered.

“I don’t know what the truth is yet, little one,” I whispered that night,
“but I promise — no matter what it costs — I’ll keep you safe.”

And that promise… is the only truth I have left.