He promised he’d be “right there.” It was my due date minus three, his brother’s wedding night, and I was contracting every seven minutes. He laughed it off on his way out the door, tux half-buttoned, cologne too loud. “Call if you need me. I’ll sober up fast.” When my water broke at 11:42 p.m., I called. He answered over music and shouted voices. “I’m in labor.” “Okay, okay—I’ll be there soon,” he said, and hung up. Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock. It wasn’t my husband. Tanya stood on my doorstep in a mauve dress with the hem...
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