The sentence.
Before the girls.
As if they were not already here.
As if my life had not reorganized itself around them months earlier.
He continued:
“Once they’re born, everything changes.”
“For you.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“Everything already changed for me.”
He rolled his eyes slightly.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
“I know pregnancy is hard.”
“No.”
“You know I say pregnancy is hard.”
“You don’t live it.”
“Okay, that’s not fair.”
“What exactly do you need a vacation from?”
He stared.
“Work.”
“Stress.”
“The whole transition.”
“The transition?”
“I’m about to become a father.”
My chest tightened.
“You already are.”
He looked confused.
“No, I mean…”
“I know what you mean.”
I stood slowly.
He reached toward me.
I moved past him.
He called:
“Em.”
I kept walking.
That evening, he tried again.
“I’ll cancel if you really want me to.”
That sounded generous.
It wasn’t.
Because now responsibility was mine.
Cancel his trip and become controlling.
Let him go and become reasonable.
I asked:
“Do you think you should go?”
He hesitated.
Then:
“I think five days isn’t going to change anything.”
There was my answer.
“Then go.”
He smiled.
Relieved.
Kissed my forehead.
“You’re the best.”
No.
I was tired.
Different thing.
Friday morning, I stood near the driveway while he loaded luggage.
He wore a linen shirt.
Sunglasses already on his head.
He came back and touched my stomach.
“Girls, don’t do anything dramatic until Dad gets home.”
I looked at him.
“You mean like being born?”
He laughed.
I didn’t.
He kissed me.
“Monday night.”
I nodded.
He got in.
Drove away.
I watched until the car disappeared.
Then my back tightened so sharply I grabbed the porch railing.
Not labor.
Just muscle spasm.
Still.
I stood there alone.
That was when I called my mother.
She answered:
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Mom.”
One word.
Her voice changed.
“What happened?”
“Can you come?”
“Yes.”
No questions.
No lecture.
Twenty-seven minutes later, she walked through the door carrying an overnight bag and groceries.
She looked around.
“Where is Caleb?”
I said:
“Mexico.”
She stopped.
Then:
“Excuse me?”
“He had a trip.”
“When is your surgery?”
“Tuesday.”
Mom closed her eyes.
Counted internally, probably for legal reasons.
Then:
“Okay.”
“That’s it?”
“No.”
“That is all I’m saying while your blood pressure matters.”
Good mother.
She unpacked groceries.
Checked my medication.
Changed the sheets.
Did not call Caleb.
Did not make my anger hers.
Saturday morning, my phone buzzed.
Photo from Caleb.
Beach.
Pool.
Blue water.
Frozen drink.
Caption:
Last freedom before diaper prison 😂
I stared.
Prison.
Our daughters.
Prison.
I put the phone down.
Mom saw my face.
“Do I want to know?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She made toast.
Sunday night, contractions began.
Not strong.
Irregular.
I called labor and delivery.
They told me to hydrate and monitor.
By two in the morning, they were closer.
Mom drove me in.
Dr. Shah examined me.
“You’re in early labor.”
I stared.
“But Tuesday.”
“Babies do not read schedules.”
Apparently not.
I called Caleb.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
Finally at 3:11 a.m., he answered.
Music in background.
Loud.
“Hey!”
“Caleb.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
Silence.
“What?”
“The contractions started.”
“Are you serious?”
“No.”
“I’m doing a bit.”
“Emily.”
His voice sharpened.
“How far apart?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’m coming.”
“When?”
“I’ll check flights.”
Dr. Shah entered.
Looked at the monitor.
Then at me.
“We should proceed.”
I told Caleb.
He said:
“Wait.”
I actually laughed.
“What?”
“Can they wait a few hours?”
I stared at the phone.
“Caleb.”
“I mean if everyone’s safe—”
Dr. Shah heard enough.
She shook her head.
“No.”
I said:
“No.”
He became panicked.
“I can be there by afternoon.”
“They’re coming now.”
“Emily.”
I closed my eyes.
“I have to go.”
“Don’t hang up.”
“I’m going into surgery.”
“Wait—”
I ended the call.
My mother held my hand while they prepared me.
I cried.
Not because Caleb was missing.
Not only.
