I had packed a hospital bag because that was what organized pregnant women did near the end. It was still sitting by our front door at home with tiny newborn pajamas folded neatly inside. I had imagined labor beginning with a stopwatch app and calm breathing and a last warm shower.
Not a wedding floor.
Not blood.
Not sirens.
Not because my father kicked my chair out from under me.
The next two hours stretched like years.
My contractions intensified. My cervix continued dilating. The bleeding worsened just enough to keep everyone tense. Nurses moved with deliberate urgency around me while Daniel called his mother, who lived forty minutes away and was the closest thing I had to a safe family. She arrived still in jeans and a cardigan, face pale with worry, and kissed my forehead like I was her own child.
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I started crying again.
