Another contraction struck, possessing such violent, tearing power that I threw my head back and let out a raw, guttural scream.
Simultaneously, a warm, heavy rush of liquid soaked through my clothes and pooled onto the fabric of the sofa. My water had broken.
Absolute, primal panic seized my chest. I needed an ambulance. I tried to push myself up, but my legs felt entirely disconnected from my brain. The room spun in dizzying circles. A horrifying realization settled over me: I was going to give birth alone on this couch, and without medical intervention, my premature twins might not survive the afternoon.
Then, the doorbell rang.
For a second, I thought the pain was making me hallucinate. But it rang again, sharp and insistent, followed by a rapid, heavy knocking against the wood.
“Hello? Hey, is anyone home?”
The voice was muffled through the wood, but it was unmistakably familiar. It was Lauren Mitchell. She had been my college roommate, a fiercely loyal force of nature whom I hadn’t seen in nearly two years. As Travis’s grip on my life had tightened, he had subtly, expertly isolated me from anyone who might question his authority. Lauren and I had drifted apart, pushed into different orbits by my husband’s constant, quiet sabotage of my friendships.
“Lauren!” I screamed, my voice tearing at my throat. “Lauren, help me! Please!”
The heavy brass handle turned. Thank God in heaven, Travis had been in such a rush to appease his mother that he hadn’t fully engaged the lock. Lauren burst into the foyer, a brightly colored envelope in her hand. Her casual smile vanished the second her eyes locked onto my contorted body.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, dropping the envelope and sprinting to my side. “You’re in labor! Where is Travis? Where is his family?”
