“Call 911.”
For one suspended beat, I thought she would.
Instead she set the folder down with exaggerated care. “Don’t be ridiculous. First babies take forever.”
I stared at her, waiting for the rest of the sentence to turn into compassion.
It didn’t.
“And if this is real,” she added, “try to breathe through it. I have dinner with Claire in less than an hour.”
The pain eased just enough for disbelief to rush in. I turned toward the den.
“Dad?”
He rustled the newspaper.
“Dad, I think something’s wrong.”
He finally lowered it an inch. “What?”
“I need a hospital.”
He folded the paper in half, not quickly, just enough to suggest mild inconvenience. “Your doctor is twenty minutes away. Can’t you wait until it settles?”
Another contraction hit so violently that my knees buckled.
This one was different. Bigger. Wronger. It tore a sound from me I had never heard myself make—a raw, involuntary cry that seemed to scrape its way up from somewhere primitive and terrified. I grabbed blindly for the counter and missed. My hip struck the cabinet on the way down.
Then I felt it.
Warmth.
A rush between my legs. Sudden, undeniable.
My water had broken.