I came home early to grab a folder and found my wife, eight months pregnant, on her knees washing my mother's feet.

On Friday evening, three days after the arrest, the monitor in Daphne's hospital room suddenly let out a sharp, continuous beep.

I had been sitting beside her bed working on my laptop when Daphne gasped, her hands clutching her stomach, her face contorting in unbearable agony.

"Ethan...!" she cried out, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "The baby... something's wrong!"

"Doctor! Nurse!" I screamed, slamming the emergency call button on the wall.

Within thirty seconds, Dr. Thorne and three trauma nurses burst into the room. The fetal monitor showed a rapid, dangerous spike in uterine contractions, accompanied by a steep drop in the baby's heart rate.

"Acute delayed stress response coupled with the residual herbal toxicity," Dr. Thorne shouted as the nurses detached the IV lines and prepared the gurney. "The placenta is failing! We need an emergency C-section right now! Move!"

They wheeled Daphne down the corridor toward the operating theater at breakneck speed. I ran alongside the gurney, holding Daphne’s cold, trembling hand in mine.

"Ethan... I'm scared," she wept, her eyes wide with terror.

"I'm right here, Daphne," I choked out, tears blurring my vision. "You're going to be okay. Both of you are going to be okay. I promise you!"

At the double doors of the surgical unit, the nurses held me back.

"Sir, you must wait outside!"

The doors swung shut, locking me out.

For two agonizing hours, I stood alone in the sterile hallway. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. I paced the linoleum floor, my hands buried in my hair, praying to a God I hadn't spoken to in years.

I thought about the bean tacos in our tiny college room. I thought about Daphne selling her grandmother's necklace. I thought about her washing my mother's feet on the marble floor, enduring unspeakable cruelty just to protect my feelings.

If I lost her tonight, no amount of justice, no amount of money, and no amount of revenge would ever make my life whole again.

At 8:42 p.m., the doors finally opened.

Dr. Thorne stepped out, wearing his surgical scrubs, his face pale with exhaustion. He pulled off his cap and looked at me.

For three terrifying seconds, he didn't speak.