At midnight, after a 20-hour journey, I walked into my house—exhausted, wrinkled, ready for sleep. But what I saw stopped me cold.

Aurelia was curled on a thin air mattress in the hallway. Her blanket had slipped, her pregnant belly exposed. Her face was tense, even in sleep.

I dropped my suitcase. “Aurelia?” I whispered.

She stirred, eyes glassy. “Dad?” she croaked, trying to sit up.

“You’re back early,” she said, wiping her cheeks.

“Why are you out here?” I asked. “Where’s your bed?”

She hesitated. “Because of Vionna.”

My stomach twisted.