Chapter 2
Claire drove with both hands locked around the steering wheel while I timed contractions on my phone. Morning traffic crawled between lights, and every stop pressed the seat belt harder against my stomach.
“Six minutes,” I said when the tightness eased.
Claire touched the call button on the dashboard. Nina answered on the second ring.
“How long have they been regular?” she asked.
“About forty minutes,” Claire said. “Maybe longer. She didn’t tell me at first.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
Nina’s voice stayed calm. She asked a few practical questions, then directed Claire to the hospital where she worked.
“I’m on today,” she said. “I’ll let the charge nurse know you’re coming, but I can’t promise I’ll be assigned to Madison.”
“I know,” I said.
“And bring the folder.”
I looked down at the birth paperwork folder resting against my knees. “I have it.”
At the hospital entrance, Claire pulled the van to the curb and found a wheelchair. Nina met us inside in navy scrubs, but she didn’t take over. She gave me a quick hug, introduced us to the admitting nurse, and stepped back while the nurse checked me in.
The folder made everything easier. Insurance cards were clipped inside the front cover. Behind them were the pediatrician’s information, my birth plan, and a typed page of emergency contacts. Ethan’s name and number appeared first. Claire’s appeared second.
The nurse glanced toward the empty chair beside me. “Is the baby’s father on his way?”
“I don’t know.”
Claire called him from the hallway. It rang until voicemail answered. I called once from my own phone, then sent a text.
I’m at the hospital. Labor is confirmed. Please call me.
The message showed delivered.
Three hours later, it still showed no reply.
Labor reduced the room to small instructions. Breathe in. Let it go. Shift onto my side. Sip water. Claire kept a cool washcloth against my neck and read my birth plan when I couldn’t answer another question. Nina stopped in only when her work allowed. Each time, she spoke first to my assigned nurse and asked permission before touching the chart or adjusting anything.
Between contractions, Claire held up her phone without speaking.
Denise had posted a photograph. The silver SUV sat beside a scenic overlook, its rear hatch open. Ethan stood near the guardrail in the same navy polo and khaki shorts he’d worn when he left. His expensive sunglasses hid his eyes. The caption was about family time and getting away from it all.
The post had gone up twenty-two minutes after my text.
“Take a screenshot,” I said.
Claire studied my face. “You don’t have to think about that right now.”
“I’m not thinking about it. I’m keeping it.”
She saved the image and its timestamp. Then another contraction came, and I handed the phone back.
By late afternoon, I stopped asking whether Ethan had called. Claire tried him twice more. One call went straight to voicemail. The other rang unanswered while a new photograph appeared online, this one showing a restaurant patio and three glasses on a table.
Nina came in near the end of her shift. She stood beside the bed, not as my nurse but as my friend, and held my hand after asking if I wanted her to stay.
“Yes,” I said.
Ava was born that evening, healthy and furious, with dark hair damp against her small head. When the nurse placed her on my chest, her cry softened into short, startled breaths. I touched one finger to her cheek.
“Hi, Ava,” I whispered.
Claire turned away for a second and wiped under both eyes. Nina lowered her gaze, giving the moment privacy even though she was standing close enough to steady my water cup.
Later, when the room was quiet, an employee brought the birth registration and hospital contact forms. I wrote Ethan’s full name where the paperwork required information about Ava’s father. My hand paused only once.
For my immediate emergency contact, I crossed out Ethan’s number and wrote Claire’s.
I checked every line before signing.
Near midnight, Nina sat beside the window while Ava slept against me. She opened my call history, captured the unanswered attempts with their times, and sent the images to my email with my permission.
“Save facts,” she said quietly. “Don’t argue with anybody tonight. Don’t make permanent decisions while you’re exhausted.”
“I already left.”
“You made yourself safe. That’s not the same as deciding everything.”
Claire was asleep in the recliner, one shoe off and one still on. Her apartment would be crowded when we were discharged. The cargo van still held half my life. None of it felt settled.
My phone remained silent on the tray.
May you like
Ava opened her eyes briefly, then curled her hand around my finger. Ethan was still away. He had missed her first breath, her first cry, and the first time someone wrote her name on a form.
This time, the absence had a date and a timestamp.
