“He chose to go somewhere else.”
She did not ask me to defend that statement.
She only nodded and continued taking notes.
Those notes would matter later too.
My labor progressed quickly after that.
The contractions that had seemed frightening on the highway became stronger and closer together.
There was no room left in my mind for Greg’s mother’s birthday dinner.
No room for the restaurant reservation he had spent the drive obsessing over.
No room for the seating arrangement or the dessert his mother liked.
There was only the next breath.
The next contraction.
The next instruction from the medical team.
And eventually, the cry of our baby filling the room.
For several seconds, every ugly thing that had happened before disappeared.
They placed the baby against me, warm and alive, and I held that tiny body against my chest while tears ran down my face.
I remember looking at the little hand curled beneath my chin and thinking about the road.
About standing alone in the snow.
About how close I had come to believing that Greg’s decision was something I simply had to endure.
Then my phone vibrated on the table beside the bed.
This time I looked.
There were missed calls from Greg and several messages.
The first was angry.
Where are you?
The second came minutes later.
Answer me.
Then another.
I went back and you weren’t there.
I stared at that one for a long time.
He had gone back.
Eventually.
Maybe after dinner.
Maybe after someone at the restaurant asked where his nine-month-pregnant wife was.
Maybe after he finally understood how his story sounded when spoken aloud.
But the timing no longer changed the important part.
He had left me there.
The next message tried to rewrite it.
You were supposed to wait by the car.
I didn’t think you were that far along.
Then:
You’re making this worse than it was.
I felt something inside me become very still.
All night I had wondered whether shock was distorting my memory.
It wasn’t.
Greg was doing exactly what he had done on the roadside: treating the consequences of his choice as my inconvenience to solve.
I saved every message.
I didn’t know yet what I would do with them.
I only knew I did not want to lose them.
A few hours later, Greg finally arrived at the hospital.
I knew he was there before he entered the room because I heard his voice outside.
He sounded irritated.
Not frightened.
Not remorseful.
I heard him tell someone, “I’m her husband.”
A nurse came in first.
“Your husband is asking to see you.
Do you want him in here?”
