A heavily pregnant taxi driver offers a homeless and injured stranger a free ride to the hospital on a rainy night. The next morning, she wakes up to a parade of SUVs outside her house. Suited men knock on her door with a truth that alters her life forever.

After two years behind the wheel, Cleo had seen every kind of passenger a taxi could carry: the 3 a.m.

party crowds stumbling over their feet, families racing to catch flights, and guilty-looking businessmen who reeked of cocktails and bad decisions. She’d heard every story, dried more than a few tears, and learned to read people before they even opened her cab door.

The yellow cab’s headlights cut through the November fog as Cleo guided her taxi down the empty streets of downtown that night.

Her back ached and the baby seemed determined to practice gymnastics against her ribs.

At eight months pregnant, her night shift was getting harder. But bills don’t pay themselves, right?

“Just a few more hours, my love,” she whispered, rubbing her swollen belly. “Then we can go home to Chester.”

The baby kicked in response, making her smile despite everything.

Chester, her orange tabby, was probably sprawled across her pillow at home, shedding orange fur everywhere. These days, that cat was the closest thing Cleo had as a family.

The mention of home brought unwanted memories flooding back. Five months ago, she’d bounded up those same stairs to their apartment, her heart racing with excitement.

She’d planned everything perfectly — the candle-lit dinner, her husband Mark’s favorite lasagna, the little pair of baby shoes she’d wrapped in silver paper.

“We’re having a baby, honey!” she’d said, sliding the package across the table.

Mark had stared at the shoes, his face draining of color. The silence stretched until Cleo couldn’t bear it.

“Say something.”

“I can’t do this, Cleo.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“Jessica’s pregnant too. With my child.

Three months along.”

The candles had burned low as Cleo’s world collapsed. Jessica. His secretary.

The woman he’d sworn was “just a friend.”

“How long were you cheating on me?”

“Does it matter?”

It hadn’t, really. Within a week, Mark was gone. Within two, he’d cleaned out their joint account.

Now, at 32, Cleo worked double shifts, trying to save enough for when the baby arrived.

“Your father might have forgotten about us,” she whispered to her bump, forcing back tears as she snapped back to the moment, “but we’re gonna make it. You’ll see.”