Panic lit through me with such force that for a second the room went white around the edges. I was on the kitchen floor, one hand splayed over the polished tile, the other clutching my stomach as if I could hold the baby inside by will alone.
“Mom,” I gasped. “Please.”
She stood then, but more from alarm at the mess than alarm for me. “Oh my God.”
My father appeared in the doorway, still holding the newspaper. He looked at the floor, at my dress, at the liquid spreading beneath me.
For the first time, something like recognition crossed his face.
“She said call 911,” my mother snapped, as though the idea had only now occurred to her.
He reached for his phone.
My own phone was in my bag by the entry table.
A fresh contraction slammed through me before he could move.
“No,” I said, or tried to. What came out sounded broken. My mind seized on one clear thought through the pain, one instinct stronger than anything else.
Ethan.
I didn’t know if I said his name aloud. I think I must have, because my mother made a sharp, annoyed sound.
“Your husband is in Europe,” she said. “This is not the time to be dependent.”
Dependent.
The word sliced through me.