Voicemail.
Again.
Voicemail.
I texted: I am due tomorrow. Where are you?
Nothing.
I sat there staring at that note, feeling something cold settle in my chest.
At 2:17 a.m., the first real contraction hit me so hard I dropped the glass in my hand. It shattered across the kitchen floor.
I was alone.
So I called Rose.
She answered on the second ring.
“Rose,” I gasped. “I think it’s happening.”
Her voice changed instantly.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Listen carefully. I’m calling 911. Then I’m calling my neighbor to drive me to the hospital. Unlock your door if you can. Sit down. Breathe. Do not waste your strength panicking.”
By the time the ambulance got me there, Rose was already waiting.
She came straight to my bedside and took my hand.
“I’m here.”
And she stayed.
Through everything.
One contraction felt endless. I was crying, sweating, barely able to see.
“He was supposed to be here,” I said.
“I know,” she replied.
“He left me.”
“I know that too.”
When my pain medication was delayed, she snapped at a nurse,
“She is in labor, not waiting for a lunch reservation.”
The nurse moved fast after that.
Hours later, my daughter was born.
Rose squeezed my hand.
“Look at me. Not him. Me. You get this baby here. That’s all you do.”
So I did.
When I looked up, Rose was crying.
“My beautiful girl,” she whispered, touching the baby’s foot. “I’m a great-grandmother.”
Then she kissed my forehead.
“You did beautifully. I’m so proud of you.”
She glanced at the empty chair beside my bed—and all softness left her face.
“I cannot believe that fool left you alone like this.”
“I’m too exhausted to even be mad,” I said.
“That’s alright,” she replied. “I have enough anger for both of us.”
Jack didn’t come to the hospital.
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