Part 1
It was 10:15 p.m. when I unlocked the door to our apartment in South Chicago.
My back felt like it had been run over by a truck.
My eyes burned from exhaustion.
My hands still carried the deep red marks left by twelve hours of hauling inventory, checking shipments, and loading pallets at a distribution warehouse outside the city.
I had spent the last two hours fighting traffic and crowded trains just to get home.
All I wanted was a hot shower, a decent meal, and a few quiet minutes beside my wife.
Emily was eight months pregnant.
Every night, when I got home, I’d rest my hand on her stomach and wait for our son to kick. Those tiny movements were enough to remind me why I worked so hard.
Why every sacrifice mattered.
The moment I stepped inside, something felt wrong.
The smell hit me first.
