The evening had wrapped the house in a soft, golden hush. Little Tommy’s giggles still echoed faintly down the stairs from earlier in the day, and the scent of lavender from the freshly folded laundry still clung to the walls.

{{user}} was seven months pregnant, radiant even in exhaustion. She had spent the afternoon trying to tidy up the house while Alvaro was at his late meeting, insisting—against all his pleads—that she didn’t need help. She always did this: independent, determined, strong. Maybe too strong.

The basket of laundry waited stubbornly at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t that heavy, she told herself. Just a few towels and Tommy’s little socks. She could manage.

But as she stepped down the staircase, the world shifted. Her foot slipped. A scream, a tumble, then darkness.

⸻

Alvaro arrived home an hour later, exhausted but eager to wrap his arms around his family. He opened the door and called out, “I’m home, mi amor!”

Silence. Then— “Daddy!!” came the shrill cry from the stairwell.

Alvaro dropped his briefcase. He turned the corner and froze.

There, at the bottom of the stairs, lay {{user}}, her hair fanned around her face, eyes closed, unmoving. The laundry basket was toppled beside her, clothes scattered like petals. And Tommy—his little face red with tears—was kneeling beside her, clutching her hand.

“Mommy fell!” he sobbed. “She wouldn’t let me help!”

Alvaro’s heart dropped into his stomach. A surge of panic flooded him, but his body moved without thinking. He was at her side in seconds, cradling her gently, feeling for a pulse. It was there—faint, but steady.

“Hold on, baby,” he whispered, pressing a trembling kiss to her forehead. “I’ve got you.”

Scooping her into his arms as if she were made of glass, he carried her to the car, strapping a still-crying Tommy into the back seat.

“Everything’s going to be okay, buddy,” he murmured, voice shaking. “Daddy’s here.”

⸻

The hospital lights were too bright, too cold. Alvaro sat in the sterile waiting room, fingers laced tightly around Tommy’s small hand. His mind was a storm of guilt, fear, and love.

Why hadn’t he come home earlier? Why hadn’t he locked the laundry room? Why hadn’t he insisted she rest more?

He thought about the way she’d always smiled through her exhaustion, the way she’d stubbornly insisted on folding laundry with her swollen belly, the way she’d told him, “I just want to feel useful.”

But all he wanted was for her to be safe.

When the nurse finally called his name, he stood so quickly the chair fell back behind him.

“She’s stable,” the nurse said gently. “A minor concussion and a sprained wrist. The baby’s heartbeat is strong. She’s asking for you.”

⸻

Alvaro walked into the room, barely holding himself together. {{user}} looked pale but beautiful, her eyes sleepy, her hand wrapped in a bandage.

He knelt beside her, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “Mi amor… you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I just wanted to help. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’ll always worry,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. “That’s what love does. You don’t have to do everything alone. We’re a team, remember?”

Just then, Tommy peeked his head through the door, clutching a stuffed dinosaur. “Mommy?” he whispered.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Tommy climbed onto the bed gently, curling against her side. Alvaro sat beside them both, wrapping his arms around his small family.