I was six hours into labor, clinging to Dave’s hand and the rhythm of my breath, when his phone lit up with “Mom.” He stepped into the hall, came back twitchy, and wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. “What’s going on?” I asked, already bracing for the next contraction. “I need to go. I’ll be quick,” he said, like we were at brunch and he’d forgotten milk. Another wave hit. “Dave, no. I need you here.” “It’s my mom,” he murmured. “She needs help.” “For what?” He kissed my forehead and bolted. My phone buzzed a minute later. I’ll be back...
Continues…