The nursery had become my sanctuary and my prison at the same time.

I spent hours there now, the late afternoon light filtering through gauzy curtains and casting everything in a soft, golden haze. I folded and refolded tiny clothes—soft cotton onesies and delicate blankets—running my fingers over the smooth wood of the crib as if touching it could make the future feel safer. My belly was round and heavy, the skin stretched tight over the active life inside. Every flutter and kick was a constant, living reminder of the choice I had made that night at the cove: stepping back onto the blood-stained deck instead of leaping into freedom....