Chapter 12 - Sister's Kitchen Table
Beth's apartment smelled like toast and dish soap. The kitchen was small enough that my knees almost touched the table leg when I sat down, and the light through the blinds cut thin lines across the chipped Formica. I'd been there two nights. My duffel bag sat by the couch where I'd been sleeping, half-unzipped, socks spilling out.
She set a mug in front of me and didn't sit right away. She stood at the counter with her hands braced on it, watching me.
"You can't keep waiting to see what he does," she said. "You need a lawyer. And you need to update your hospital plan."
I wrapped both hands around the mug. The baby was low and heavy that morning, pressing on my bladder every time I shifted.
"I already called the OB office yesterday," I said. "They changed the contact."
"Good." She sat down across from me. "But Maya. The paperwork stuff. The folder. You need someone who knows what it means."
I nodded because she was right and I was tired of pretending I could figure it out alone. I'd kept the folder in my duffel since I'd taken everything else out of the nursery. I hadn't opened it again since that first morning on the wood floor.
Beth pushed a yellow legal pad toward me. "Write it down. What you need if he comes back. Not what you want him to say. What you need."
I stared at the blank page for a minute. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere downstairs a car door slammed.
I picked up the pen.
"One," I said out loud as I wrote. "He doesn't come to the hospital unless I say so. I'll decide when, if." My handwriting slanted. "Two. He doesn't sign anything for me or the baby without a lawyer present. No papers at the bedside."
Beth nodded. "Keep going."
"Three. He tells the truth about her. Her name. How long. In writing. No more controlled version at my front door." I paused. My hand was cramping. "Four. He doesn't bring that suitcase back here like nothing happened. If he wants to be a father, he starts with supervised visits and a parenting plan. Not sleepovers."
I set the pen down. Seeing it in my own writing made it realer than thinking it.
"That's not revenge," Beth said quietly. "That's just safety."
"I know," I said. "I don't want to punish him. I just can't have him walking in and out with that look like he's managing me."
After breakfast I dragged the black duffel onto the kitchen floor and emptied it. It felt different from the morning I'd packed it in our entryway. Then I'd folded everything with shaking hands while Derek stood over the folder. Now I refolded slowly, checking each thing.
Two nightgowns. The going-home outfit, newborn size and zero-to-three because the nurse at my class had said you never know. The little knit hat from Beth. Toothbrush, hair tie, lip balm. Insurance card and ID in the side pocket. Phone charger.
I added the list from the legal pad, folded in half. I added the OB's after-hours number on a separate card. I zipped the front pocket where I'd kept the folder papers before and left it empty.
"Birth without Derek," Beth said from the doorway. She didn't make it a question.
"Birth without counting on Derek," I corrected. "There's a difference."
I was reaching to stand when it hit — a tightening that started low in my back and wrapped around to the front, hard enough that I stopped breathing. I gripped the edge of the table. Beth was at my side in two steps.
"Hey. Hey, look at me," she said. "Breathe with me. In through your nose."
I tried. The air caught. The baby shifted and the pressure spiked, then eased, then spiked again. I counted in my head like they'd taught us. It lasted almost a minute before it let go, leaving my legs shaky.
"Okay," I breathed. "Okay."
"How far apart was the last one?" Beth asked. She already had her phone out, timer open.
"There wasn't a last one. That was the first." I leaned back against the chair. Sweat stuck my hair to my neck. "Maybe Braxton Hicks."
"Call anyway," she said. "That's what the line's for."
My hands were still trembling when I dialed the OB line. I gave my name and due date and described the tightening while Beth mouthed *breathe* at me. The nurse on call was calm, unhurried. Had I had leaking fluid? No. Bleeding? No. Could I still feel movement? Yes — a slow roll right then, as if on cue.
"Time them for an hour, drink water, lie on your left side," she said. "Come in if they get regular or closer than five minutes."
I hung up and lay on Beth's couch with a glass of water while she sat on the floor next to the repacked duffel, timing on her phone. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Nothing else came except a dull ache that faded.
"False alarm," I said.
May you like
Beth exhaled and rubbed her face. "Thank God."
I kept my hand on my belly and felt the baby settle. The yellow pad with my terms sat on the coffee table next to the hospital bag, both ready. For the first time in days, I wasn't waiting for Derek to decide what happened next. I'd written it down myself.
