“Don’t you dare move until I come back,” he snapped, pulling his arm away—his tone cold and authoritative in a way I had never heard directed at me before.
His father, Gerald, stepped out from the hallway, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. “She can wait a few hours. It’s not that serious.” He clapped Travis on the shoulder. “Women have been giving birth forever. Take your mother shopping. She’s been waiting all week.”
I tried to protest, but Travis was already guiding his mother and sister out the door. Deborah shot me a satisfied look, her lips curved in triumph. “Just lie down on the couch,” Travis called without turning around. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
The door slammed shut. Gerald retreated to his den. The car engine roared to life and then faded, leaving me alone in the house as pain ripped through me.
I collapsed onto the sofa, tears streaming down my cheeks. How had it come to this? How had the man who once vowed to protect me walked away while I was in labor with his children?
Twenty minutes passed. The contractions were closer now, barely three minutes apart. My hands shook as I reached for my phone, but the screen blurred. My parents were on a cruise celebrating their fortieth anniversary. My best friend Kimberly had moved to Portland the month before. Every other contact was a relative of Travis or someone who always sided with him.
Another contraction struck—so powerful I screamed. Warm liquid ran down my leg. My water had broken.
Panic gripped me. I needed help immediately. I tried to stand, but my legs buckled. The room spun. Horror set in as I realized I might deliver on this couch—or worse, that my babies might not survive without urgent medical care.
The doorbell rang. For a moment I thought I imagined it. Then it rang again, followed by knocking.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
