Drama.
I was nine months pregnant. My husband, Ryan, was overseas on a work trip he couldn’t leave. My doctor had warned me the baby might come early and fast. That morning, I had begged my mother to stay with me, just in case. She promised she would.
Now she was grabbing her purse.
“Mom, please,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “I can’t stand. Something feels wrong.”
She sighed loudly, annoyed. “You’re exaggerating like always. Women give birth every day. Call a car.”
They walked out together, laughing about decorations and guests, leaving the door to slam shut behind them. The silence that followed was terrifying.
