At thirty weeks pregnant, getting out of bed had become a complex engineering feat. I was huge, swollen, and perpetually exhausted. I'd waddle to the bathroom each morning, catching my reflection in the mirror—a woman I barely recognized, her face tired but her belly round and full of life. "Two more months, Sophia," I'd whisper to my reflection, my hand resting on the taut skin of my stomach. A strong, insistent kick would be my reply. "Easy, baby," I'd laugh. "Mommy's ribs can't take much more."
It had been five months since Dante's arrest. Five months of waking up alone, of eating breakfast in a silent dining room, of living a life suspended in a state of perpetual waiting. His trial was set to begin in three weeks, at the beginning of December. My due date was late February. The math was a cruel, relentless torment. If he was convicted, he might be sentenced in March. He might be there for her birth, only to be torn away from us immediately after. I tried not to think about it. I focused on today.
I was still volunteering at the hospital three days a week, against my doctor's advice. The children there were my lifeline to normalcy. They loved my belly and would ask to feel Sophia kick. "Miss Ella, you're REALLY big!" Tommy, now in remission and preparing to go home, announced one day.
"Thanks, Tommy," I laughed.
"When's the baby coming?"
"About ten more weeks."
"Will your husband be there?" he asked, his innocent question a dagger to my heart.
"I hope so, sweetie," I managed to say, my voice thick. "I really, really hope so."
My friend Grace pulled me aside that day. "You're overdoing it, Ella. You should be resting."
"If I stay home, I just think," I confessed. "And worry. At least here, I feel useful."
"Promise me you'll take it easy," she said, her eyes full of concern. I promised, but we both knew it was a lie.
That afternoon, my phone rang. It was Chen, Dante's lawyer. His tone was grim. "Mrs. Russo, we need to talk." My heart sank. "The prosecution has added another witness. A former associate of Dante's. His testimony is… damaging."
"How damaging?" I asked, my hand instinctively going to my belly.
"He's claiming Dante ordered a hit five years ago. He has details only someone who was present would know. This could add a murder conspiracy charge to the indictment."
"Is it true?" I whispered.
"Dante says no, but the evidence is compelling. If he's convicted on this, Ella… it could mean life without parole."
I couldn't breathe. Life. He would never get out. Sophia would never know her father outside of a prison visiting room. My chest tightened, a band of pure panic squeezing the air from my lungs. Grace found me in the break room, gasping for breath. "Ella? What's wrong? You're having a panic attack. Breathe with me, honey."
She helped me through it, her calm voice a lifeline in my terror. But just as my breathing began to even out, a sharp, searing pain shot through my abdomen. I cried out, doubling over.
"What is it?" Grace asked, her face pale.
"Pain," I gasped as another one, stronger this time, ripped through me. "Grace, something's wrong."
She looked at her watch, her expression turning from concern to alarm. "Those are contractions," she said, her voice tight. "They're five minutes apart. We need to get you to Labor and Delivery. Now."
The world became a blur of worried faces, rushing doctors, and the urgent beeping of monitors. "You're in preterm labor," a doctor told me, his face serious. "We need to try and stop it, or this baby is coming today."
"No," I sobbed, pure terror washing over me. "She's not ready. It's too early."
Isabella arrived in a flurry, her face a mask of fear. "They'll stop it," she said, gripping my hand. "They have to."
"I need Dante," I cried, the need for him a physical ache. "I need him here."
Isabella called Chen, who filed an emergency motion for a medical furlough, a request for Dante to be with me at the hospital. But he warned her the chances were slim. A man facing these charges was considered an extreme flight risk.
The medications they gave me began to work, and slowly, miraculously, the contractions eased. "We've stopped the labor, for now," the doctor explained. "But you are at a very high risk for a premature birth. You are on immediate and strict bed rest until this baby comes."
"For ten weeks?" I asked, horrified.
"If we're lucky," he said gravely. "It could be much sooner. Every single day she stays in utero at this stage matters." The reality was unavoidable now. This baby was likely coming before the trial even started.
Dante got the news in a brief, monitored phone call from Chen. He later told me he had punched the concrete wall of his cell, the pain in his hand a dull echo of the agony in his heart.
The next morning, the judge denied the motion for furlough. "I sympathize with Mrs. Russo's situation," he'd said, "but I cannot grant furlough to a defendant facing these charges." Hearing the news from Isabella, I wasn't surprised, but the finality of it broke my heart all over again.
I was discharged from the hospital and sentenced to my bed. Isabella stayed with me, a constant, comforting presence. That evening, Chen arranged for a special video call. Dante's face appeared on the laptop screen, and we both started crying immediately.
"Ella," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "God, I was so scared."
"Me too," I whispered. "But we're okay. For now."
"I should be there with you."
"I know."
He looked at my belly, visible even on the grainy screen. "I wish I could feel her kick."
"Here," I said, turning the laptop toward my stomach. "She's kicking now. See?" I pointed to the tiny, rolling movements under the fabric of my shirt. His hand came up, his fingers pressing against the screen, an automatic, heartbreaking gesture. He could see, but he could never touch.
"The doctor says she might come early," I told him, my voice trembling. "Before the trial."
"Before I get out," he finished, his voice flat. "If I get out."
"Don't say that."
"Ella, we have to face it," he said, his voice raw with a pain that mirrored my own. "I might not be there when she's born. And if I'm convicted… I might not hold her for years. Maybe ever." He looked at me, his eyes filled with a desperate plea. "Promise me you'll tell her about me. Tell her I love her. Tell her I wanted to be there more than anything."
"You'll tell her yourself," I insisted, tears streaming down my face.
"Promise me, Ella."
"Fine," I choked out. "I promise."
The call ended, as it always did, too soon. I was alone again in our massive bed, my hands resting on my belly. "Your daddy loves you so much, Sophia," I whispered to the tiny life moving within me. "He's fighting to meet you. And Mommy is going to keep you safe until he can." A strong kick was her reply.
I lay there, exhausted, my thoughts a tangled mess. The trial was in three weeks. The baby could come at any moment. Everything was uncertain. But one thing was crystal clear: I would protect this child, no matter what.
Bed rest meant endless hours alone with my thoughts, with my fears. The baby kicked and rolled, her movements both a profound comfort and a constant, painful reminder that time was running out. In three weeks, Dante would face a jury. In possibly less, I would face labor. And there was no guarantee he would be free for either. I placed my hands where his should be, on our daughter's strong, insistent movements, and made a silent vow. She would know her father. Even if I had to bring her to a prison visiting room every week for the next eighteen years. Even if all she ever knew of him was his voice over a phone and his hand pressed against glass. She would know she was loved. By both of us. No matter what.