yourself, Phoebe. Stop being so dramatic.”
Then he hung up.
For several seconds, I stared at the dark screen, trying to understand how the man who had promised to hold my hand through childbirth had abandoned me at the exact moment I needed him. Another contraction ripped through me, and a nurse hurried over with a wheelchair.
“Is someone coming?” she asked gently.
I looked down at the silent phone. “Not my husband.”
At thirty-eight weeks pregnant, I sat alone outside the maternity ward, one hand pressed to my stomach
