My husband dragged me from the maternity ward by my arm, reopening the IV wound, because his mistress wanted my private room for her cosmetic recovery.

By 8:00 AM, the morning light poured through the tall windows of Suite 402, illuminating the vibrant autumn leaves in the courtyard below.

Dr. Althaus entered the room with two other specialists: Dr. Kalu, the chief of the neonatal intensive care unit, and a high-resolution sonographer pushing a top-of-the-line cart equipped with advanced 4D vascular imaging.

“Morning, Clara,” Dr. Althaus said, her tone bright but intensely focused. “Let’s see how our four houseguests are holding up after yesterday’s marathon.”

Nurse Gable helped me untie the gown, baring the vast, taut expanse of my belly. The sonographer applied a generous ribbon of warm gel and pressed the curved transducer down with firm, steady pressure.

The screen lit up with incredible, sharp clarity.

For the first time, I could see their faces in stunning, golden-toned 3D rendering. Baby A—a boy—was resting his chin on his crossed hands, sleeping peacefully beneath my right ribs. Baby C—a girl—was actively sucking her thumb, her tiny eyelashes fluttering in the amniotic fluid. Baby D—another girl—was curled tightly in the upper left corner, her little feet kicking rhythmically against the uterine wall.

Then Dr. Althaus took the probe, sliding it down to the lower pelvic brim.

Baby B appeared on the screen.

He was smaller than the other three—measuring approximately two pounds, four ounces, compared to their two pounds, eight ounces. But as Dr. Althaus switched on the color Doppler, the screen exploded with vibrant pulses of red and blue, showing the blood coursing through his umbilical cord.

“Look at that,” Dr. Althaus whispered, a broad smile spreading across her face. “The marginal tear has completely sealed with a healthy fibrin clot. The end-diastolic flow through his umbilical artery is completely normal. He’s tough, Clara. Just like his mother.”

Tears blurred my vision as I watched his tiny chest rise and fall in practice breathing motions. “How much longer can we give them, Doctor?”

Dr. Althaus examined the cervical measurements on the digital caliper.

“Your cervix has stabilized at 2.8 centimeters thanks to the magnesium,” she said. “If we keep you on absolute bed rest, administer two full rounds of betamethasone steroids to mature their lungs, we can comfortably target thirty-two weeks. In the quadruplet world, thirty-two weeks is the gold standard. Their survival rate at thirty-two weeks is over ninety-nine percent with minimal long-term complications.”

“Two more weeks,” I whispered, touching the screen where Baby B’s tiny profile was frozen. “I can do two weeks.”

“You won't be doing it alone,” a voice said from the doorway.

I looked up.

Standing in the entrance of Suite 402 was a woman I hadn't seen in three years.

She was wearing a faded denim jacket, a heavy backpack slung over one shoulder, and carrying a massive bouquet of fresh yellow sunflowers—my favorite. Her short brown hair was messy from an overnight flight, and her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Maggie?” I choked out.

Maggie Halifax—my older cousin, my father’s brother’s daughter, and the woman Brandon had systematically driven out of my life four years ago by fabricating family feuds and intercepting her letters.

Maggie dropped her backpack on the floor, rushed across the room, and wrapped her arms gently around my shoulders, burying her face against my neck.

“I’m here, Clara,” Maggie sobbed, holding me tight. “Arthur called me in Denver yesterday afternoon. I took the first red-eye out of Colorado. That son of a bitch will never keep us apart again.”

For the first time in seven months, the suffocating loneliness that had wrapped around my heart like a steel band snapped cleanly in half.