He guarded his phone.
He started taking calls in the driveway.
His mother, Margaret, became even less subtle than usual, criticizing the nursery paint, my diet, my doctor, my breathing, my posture, my tone, my family, everything except the things that actually mattered.
I told myself it was stress.
I told myself first pregnancies did strange things to everyone.
I was too busy building a crib and folding tiny cotton sleepers to admit I was living with a man who had already emotionally left.
The labor began on a wet Monday afternoon.
By midnight, the pain had sharpened into something primal and endless.
Nurses kept telling me I was progressing.
The obstetrician, Dr.
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