The pain struck like lightning splitting through my abdomen, and suddenly I was on the floor. Cold Italian marble pressed against my cheek—the expensive tile Eric had insisted on because it “added value to our investment.” My wedding rings scraped against the surface as I clawed for purchase, trying to reach my phone while my vision blurred and my body convulsed. “Eric,” I gasped, but the house was empty.

He’d already left for his evening jog, headphones in, world shut out. The same predictable routine he’d maintained for three years. I fumbled for my phone with trembling fingers, each movement sending fresh waves of fire through my core.

The ambulance dispatcher’s voice seemed to echo from underwater as I whispered our address between ragged breaths. Somewhere in the distance, I heard sirens growing closer, but all I could think about was how many times I’d told Eric something was wrong. For weeks, I’d been describing the stabbing pains that woke me at night.

The nausea that made me rush from important dinners. The exhaustion that left me hollow-eyed and shaking. “You’re stressed,” he’d said, not even looking up from his laptop.

“Maybe see a therapist.” When I’d persisted, his response had been colder: “This anxiety thing is getting old, Christina.”