The Unanswered Emergency Calls
Seattle's rainy season felt endless.
I was in the hospital for a threatened miscarriage.
That same day, my husband Griffin Montgomery's phone blew up with over a hundred missed calls.
They were all from Briar. An intern at his company, a girl who claimed to have severe anxiety and suicidal tendencies.
As the phone buzzed nonstop, I weakly asked if he needed to call her back. He shot back, irritated, "Just ignore it. She'll only keep calling. Doesn't she have parents? God, this is so annoying."
However, a mere ten minutes later, the girl posted a photo of herself in a white dress on Instagram.
She was standing on the ledge of the Kerry Park observation deck.
The caption read: "If I fall from here, will I become the wind? Maybe then, people won't hate me anymore."
Griffin glanced at it and let out a derisive sneer. "Become the wind? What kind of melodramatic teen drama is she starring in?"
But his restlessness betrayed him. He paced the hospital room for the next hour, a caged animal, before finally snatching his car keys and rushing out, tossing over his shoulder, "I'm going to check on her. I'll be right back."
That night, I started hemorrhaging and was rushed into the emergency room.
When the doctor asked if they should do everything they could to save the fetus, I glanced at the empty spot beside me and answered quietly, "No. Let him go."