Chapter 9 - THE DAY LABOR STARTED
My daughter chose the worst possible day to arrive.
Or maybe the best.
At 35 weeks and 6 days, I woke at 3:12 in the morning with a pain low in my abdomen.
I assumed it was another false contraction.
Then another came seven minutes later.
Then another.
Rachel drove me to the hospital.
I texted Mark from the car.
I am having regular contractions.
I am going to St. Matthew’s Hospital for evaluation.
His reply came less than one minute later.
I’M COMING.
I showed Rachel.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
I did not want Mark holding my hand.
I did not want Diane near me.
But he was still the baby’s father.
Part of me hated that I still wanted him to behave like one.
At the hospital, Dr. Patel confirmed I was in early labor.
“We may be able to slow it.”
“Is she okay?”
“Her heartbeat looks good.”
I began crying.
Dr. Patel squeezed my hand.
“We’re going to take care of both of you.”
Forty minutes later, Mark arrived.
Alone.
He stood in the doorway.
For a moment, he looked like the man I remembered.
Terrified.
Pale.
Vulnerable.
“Emily.”
I looked at him.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
“Can I come in?”
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
He sat beside the bed.
Neither of us spoke for almost a minute.
Finally, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
My heart reacted before my mind did.
I wanted to believe him.
Then his next sentence came.
“I’m sorry this got so out of control.”
Not I’m sorry I betrayed you.
Not I’m sorry I helped my mother build a case against you.
Not I’m sorry I photographed you.
This got out of control.
As if the plan had somehow created itself.
I looked away.
“Emily, Mom was worried.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Even now.
“She loves the baby.”
“She doesn’t know the baby.”
“She loves the idea of her.”
“That’s not fair.”
I turned toward him.
“I found the folder.”
Every bit of color left his face.
“I know.”
“How?”
“The other night.”
“When you said it was already legal.”
I nodded.
Mark rubbed both hands together.
“It wasn’t supposed to be used against you.”
I stared at him.
“What was MATERNAL FITNESS CONCERNS supposed to be used for?”
He looked down.
“Preparation.”
“For what?”
“In case you struggled after the birth.”
“Who decided I would struggle?”
“No one.”
“Then why were you preparing to remove our daughter from me?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Your mother was preparing a nursery transition plan.”
His head snapped up.
“How do you know that?”
The question answered more than he intended.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You knew the words.”
“I saw the calendar.”
“Emily—”
“You knew.”
He stood.
“You went through the house?”
“I went to my house to get my clothes.”
“That office is private.”
I almost laughed.
“I’m in labor and you’re angry because I found your custody file.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You are.”
He took a step toward me.
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“That you weren’t handling pregnancy well.”
I stared at him.
“What did I do?”
“You cried a lot.”
“My father died two years ago and I cried less than you did at the funeral.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
“What did I do, Mark?”
He looked toward the floor.
“You fought with Mom.”
“She was provoking me.”
“You were always upset.”
“Because she moved into our house.”
“She was helping.”
“By throwing my hospital bag?”
He looked away.
“By telling your church friends I wouldn’t raise my baby?”
His eyes widened.
That surprised him.
Good.
“Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“She shouldn’t have said that.”
“But she believed it.”
Mark said nothing.
“And you let her.”
His face crumpled slightly.
“I thought we were protecting the baby.”
The contraction hit so suddenly that I doubled forward.
Mark rushed toward me.
I raised one hand.
“Don’t.”
A nurse entered.
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“I want him out.”
Mark froze.
“Emily.”
“I want him out.”
The nurse stepped between us.
“Sir, you need to leave.”
“I’m her husband.”
“And she is the patient.”
Those words mattered.
I was the patient.
I was still a person.
Not a file.
Not an evaluation.
Not a mother they could declare unfit before I had even given birth.
Mark stared at me.
“I’m the baby’s father.”
I breathed through the contraction.
“You should have remembered that before you helped your mother plan how to take her from me.”
The nurse escorted him out.
Five minutes later, my phone began vibrating.
Diane.
I declined the call.
She called again.
And again.
Then a message appeared.
DO NOT MAKE A SCENE AT THE HOSPITAL.
For the first time in months, Diane’s words did not make me feel small.
I showed the nurse.
She frowned.
“Do you want her barred from the unit?”
I looked at the screen.
Then I looked at the fetal monitor.
“Yes.”
The nurse nodded.
May you like
“I’ll handle it.”
That was the moment the power began to shift.
