The first contraction bent me over the couch just as my mother-in-law closed the last suitcase.
“Don’t you dare ruin our trip with one of your little scenes.”
She didn’t even look at me when she said it.
My name is Valerie. I was 38 weeks pregnant. And the luxury week in Maui that my husband, his mother Gertrude, and his sister Felicity were about to start that morning had been paid for with my money. I paid for the flights. I paid for the hotel. I even put down the card they planned to use for all their shopping.
When I asked for help, no one came closer.
Dominic was wearing an impeccable suit, his hair slicked back with gel. Felicity hugged a new handbag as if it mattered more than anything else in that house. Gertrude just kept checking the time, annoyed that the taxi was about to arrive. To them, my pain wasn’t pain. It was an inconvenience.
Then I felt warm liquid run down my legs.
“My water broke,” I told Dominic. “Call an ambulance.”
I will never forget the way he avoided my eyes.
The worst part wasn’t that they left. The worst part was what I heard from the other side of the door.
“Lock both doors, Dominic. Let her give birth peacefully and don’t let her even think about following us to the airport.”
And he did it.
They left me alone. Locked in. Lying on the floor of the house they all bragged about as if it were theirs. My phone was a few feet away, on top of the TV stand. I remember dragging myself toward it with one hand on my belly and the other slipping on the cold marble floor, while our wedding photo lit up the screen like a mockery.
I called 911.
Then I called Bridget, my best friend, the only person who still knew how to hear the fear behind my voice.
By the time the ambulance got inside, I was barely conscious.
My son was born that same night.
