I was thirty-six weeks pregnant with twins when the first serious contraction hit.
It was different from everything I had felt before.
Sharper.
Deeper.
Wrong.
I gripped the kitchen counter and called for my husband.
“Evan.”
He appeared from the hallway, already dressed to leave.
I stared at him.
“I think we need to go to the hospital.”
His expression changed.
“Now?”
Another contraction came before I could answer.
I grabbed his arm.
“Yes. Now.”
My pregnancy had been classified as high-risk from the beginning. My obstetrician had given us clear instructions.
If labor started early or anything felt unusual, we were not supposed to wait.
Evan knew that.
Then his mother, Margaret, walked into the room carrying her handbag.
“We’ll go after we finish shopping,” she said.
I stared at her.
“What?”
She looked annoyed.
“I need to pick up a few things. It won’t take long.”
I looked at Evan.
“Tell her no.”
He hesitated.
That hesitation terrified me more than Margaret’s words.
“Evan, please.”
He looked between us.
“Maybe we’ll only be gone an hour.”
I could not believe what I was hearing.
“Your daughters may be coming right now.”
Margaret sighed.
“Women have babies every day. Stop frightening him.”
Another contraction hit.
I bent forward, unable to speak.
Evan stepped toward me.
For one second, I thought he had finally understood.
Instead, he said quietly.
“Just lie down. I’ll be back soon.”
I grabbed his sleeve.
“Please don’t leave me.”
Margaret opened the front door.
“Evan.”
He looked at me one last time.
Then followed his mother outside.
The door closed.
I stood alone in the living room.
Pregnant with twins.
In labor.
Watching the man who promised to protect our family drive away because his mother wanted to go shopping.
Comments (0)