Thirty-one days after Nathan opened those divorce papers in my kitchen, with a fraud filing in motion and his brother inching toward betrayal of a different sort, my water broke on the hardwood floor beside a box labeled BABY BLANKETS.
And suddenly the only thing in the world that mattered was getting my daughter safely here.
Part 7
Labor stripped everything down.
All the legal strategy, all the betrayal, all the rehearsed speeches I’d had with myself in the shower and the car and the middle of the night—none of it mattered once the contractions settled into a pattern that felt less like pain and more like being gripped from the inside by something ancient and unsentimental.
Roz made it to my apartment in twelve minutes.
I know that because I had texted her one word—now—and she arrived in scrub pants, snow boots, and a sweatshirt that said TRAUMA IS MY CARDIO.
“Okay,” she said, already grabbing the hospital bag by the door. “Breathe, don’t panic, and if Nathan somehow appears I will handle it.”
“You sound excited.”
“I’m a little excited.”