I couldn’t answer. I gripped the granite countertop, my knuckles white. And then, it happened. A gush of warm fluid soaked through my maternity dress, pooling rapidly on the floor. It wasn’t just clear fluid. It was tinged with heavy, dark red.
“Mom!” I screamed. It was a primal sound, one I didn’t know I could make.
The family rushed into the kitchen. For a second, I thought I saw fear in their eyes. I was wrong.
“Oh my God!” my mother shrieked. She wasn’t looking at me. She was pointing at the floor. “The Persian rug! The liquid is running onto the runner! Elena, move!”
I collapsed into the puddle, gasping for air. “Help… me… something’s wrong. It’s too early. The blood…”
My father stood in the doorway, checking his Rolex. “It’s 6:45. The reservation is at 7:00. If we don’t leave now, we lose the table at L’Obsidian.”
“Dad, please,” I begged, tears streaming down my face, mixing with the sweat. “Call 911. I think… I think I’m dying.”
Victor stepped forward, wrinkling his nose. “She’s probably just being dramatic, Robert. Women exaggerate labor. Besides, if we call an ambulance here, the neighbors will see. It looks bad for the brand.”
Clara looked at her phone. “Victor is right. We can’t be late. L’Obsidian has a strict policy. The owner is notorious for canceling reservations if you’re a minute late.”
My mother stepped over me. She actually stepped over my heaving body to grab her clutch from the counter.
