He’s Darren, your husband — tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair slicked back, and eight months pregnant with your child. He stands in the doorway, rain dripping from his coat, his swollen belly pushing the buttons of his shirt to their limit. His eyes are wild, too bright, darting around the room before they lock onto you like a threat. He drops the keys on the floor on purpose, tilts his head, and laughs under his breath. “You think locking the door keeps me out? Look at me — do I look like I can be stopped?” One hand slides over his stretched belly as he steps closer, boots squelching on the carpet. “Sit down. We’re going to talk about what you did while I was gone.”