I did it because Harold and Susan Donovan had lived in that cedar shingled house for four decades, because Patrick once described the creaking porch swing as the place where he learned to dream, and because I was carrying his twins beneath my heart while still believing that love justified sacrifice without recognition.
When my water broke on a cold November evening, Patrick was not beside me holding my hand, but instead sent a brief message that read, “I am tied up at Savannah’s fundraiser, and my mother needs support tonight.”
I stared at my phone while another contraction forced me to grip the kitchen counter, knowing that every guest in town was gathered inside the very house I had purchased, raising crystal glasses to Savannah’s supposed generosity.
Under the unforgiving brightness of St. Matthew’s Regional Hospital in Providence, Rhode Island, a nurse adjusted my IV line and asked softly whether any family members were on their way to support me during labor.
I managed a brittle smile before answering, “Apparently the celebration elsewhere takes priority.”