A Cop Called: “Sir, Your Pregnant Wife Is in the Hospital with Another Man.” I Rushed Over…

The Call That Changed Everything

A cop called. “Sir, your pregnant wife is in the hospital found with another man.” I rushed over.

The doctor warned, “What you’re about to see may shock you.” Then pulled back the curtain. “I fell to my knees.”

“There’s something else you need to know,” he whispered.

The call came at 2:47 p.m. on a Thursday in March. I was in a client meeting halfway through a presentation on quarterly projections when my phone buzzed against the conference table.

I glanced down at an unknown number. Normally I’d ignore it, but Emma was 8 months pregnant—8 months and 3 days to be exact.

Due date April 23rd. Any call could be important.

“Excuse me,” I said to the five executives staring at me. “My wife’s pregnant. I should take this.”

I stepped into the hallway and pressed accept. “Hello?”

“Is this David Walsh?” A woman’s voice asked, professional and tense.

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Sir, this is Nurse Patricia Martinez from Georgetown University Hospital. Your wife Emma Walsh is here. She’s been in an accident.”

My stomach dropped. The hallway tilted. “What? Is she okay? Is the baby?”,

“She’s stable. The baby appears fine, but sir, you need to come immediately. There are circumstances you need to be aware of.”

“What circumstances? What happened?”

“I can’t discuss this over the phone. Please come to the emergency department and ask for Dr. Richard Chen when you arrive.”

She hung up before I could ask more questions. I ran back to the conference room and grabbed my laptop, mumbling something about an emergency.

My boss Michael, 53, 15 years at the firm, took one look at my face. “Go. We’ll reschedule.” he said.

I drove like a maniac. Georgetown University Hospital was 17 miles from my office in Arlington.

I made it in 23 minutes, blowing through two yellow lights that were definitely red by the time I crossed the intersection. Emma was eight months pregnant with our daughter, our first child.

The nursery was ready. It was painted soft yellow, the crib was assembled, and the changing table was stocked.

We’d picked the name Lily Grace Walsh. We’d taken the birthing classes and read all the books; we were ready.

And now she was in the hospital from an accident with circumstances. What circumstances?,

A car crash? A fall? Was the baby hurt? Was Emma hurt worse than they were saying?

I parked in the emergency lot. I didn’t bother with proper spaces, just abandoned my car near the entrance and sprinted inside.

The ER waiting room was chaos with crying children, elderly people, and someone shouting in Spanish. There was the smell of antiseptic and fear.

I pushed through to the desk. A tired-looking woman in scrubs looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“David Walsh. My wife, Emma Walsh. I got a call. Dr. Richard Chen.”

Her expression shifted. Something flickered across her face. “Pity.”

“One moment, sir.” She picked up a phone, spoke quietly, and hung up.

“Dr. Chen will be right out.”

“Can I see my wife?”

“Dr. Chen will speak with you first.”

“I don’t want to speak to anyone! I want to see my wife!”

“Sir, please.” Her voice was gentle but firm.

“Dr. Chen needs to speak with you first. It’s protocol. Please sit down.”

I didn’t sit; I paced. Five minutes felt like five hours, and every second was torture.

Emma and Lily—were they okay? Why wouldn’t they let me see them?