I avoided large hospitals where someone might recognize my name, and I visited small private clinics where the waiting rooms were quiet and anonymous.
Every time a nurse asked gently, “Where is the baby’s father,” I forced a steady smile and replied, “There is no father involved.”
The lie tasted bitter every time, yet I swallowed it because it felt safer than the truth. When labor finally began, it arrived violently in the middle of the night, and the pain was so intense that I could barely stand upright as I called for a ride to a district hospital in downtown Austin.
By the time I was admitted, my back was soaked with sweat and my fingers were clutching the bedsheets so tightly that my knuckles turned white.
The delivery doctor entered the room wearing a white coat and a surgical mask, and his voice sounded familiar yet distant as he said, “You need to push harder, the baby is coming.”
I focused on breathing and pushing through the waves of pain, and then he lowered his mask slightly to speak more clearly. In that instant I recognized him, and the world seemed to tilt beneath me.