Another wave came then—harder this time, curling from my spine around to the front of my abdomen like a steel band tightening. I gripped the edge of the island until it passed.
My mother watched with mild irritation, as though I were doing this badly on purpose.
“When’s your next appointment?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Well, then you can mention all this melodrama to your doctor.”
I looked at her.
Something in me wanted to laugh, because even then—even with pain gathering beneath my skin—I still expected a mother to sound like one.
“I think I need to sit down,” I said.
“Then sit.”
I lowered myself onto a stool, breathing carefully. The baby shifted, a firm press beneath my ribs. My heart started beating too fast. Premature labor had been mentioned during one appointment as a possibility only in the abstract, something to watch for, not something I truly believed would come for me. I had read the pamphlets, absorbed the warnings, stored them somewhere in memory beside all the other instructions women collect and hope never to need.
Back pain. Pressure. Tightening. Fluid. Timing contractions.
I checked the clock on the microwave.
My mother was already opening the folder. “Honestly, Amelia, your father makes these things sound impossible, but all I needed was your signature on page four. You could have dropped it with the doorman.”
A sharper pain struck before I could answer.
I sucked in breath so quickly it stung my throat. My hand flew to my stomach. The room blurred at the edges.
That got her attention, but only partially.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Is this about Ethan being away? Because stress can cause all sorts of dramatic sensations.”
I slid off the stool, suddenly desperate to move, and braced both hands on the marble counter. “Mom.”
She looked up.
“Call 911.”
For one suspended beat, I thought she would.
Instead she set the folder down with exaggerated care. “Don’t be ridiculous. First babies take forever.”
I stared at her, waiting for the rest of the sentence to turn into compassion.
It didn’t.
“And if this is real,” she added, “try to breathe through it. I have dinner with Claire in less than an hour.”
The pain eased just enough for disbelief to rush in. I turned toward the den.
“Dad?”
He rustled the newspaper.
“Dad, I think something’s wrong.”
He finally lowered it an inch. “What?”
“I need a hospital.”