I should’ve trusted Paul’s instinct.
“I can’t help feeling that something is wrong.”
I went into labor two weeks early.
It hit hard and fast in the middle of the night. Paul drove me to the hospital while I breathed through contractions.
Carol stood beside my bed, clutching my hand. Paul wiped my forehead with a damp cloth. Rob paced near the window.
At one point, Carol leaned close and whispered, “You’re doing so good. My boy is almost here. He’s almost here.”
I went into labor two weeks early.
Then finally, after one last push, the baby cried.
Everything stopped as that sound filled the room. Small, fierce, alive.
Carol covered her mouth with both hands and started sobbing.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “That’s my son.”
The nurse placed him on my chest for a moment. He was warm and slippery and red-faced and perfect.
I looked at Paul, and a chill ran down my spine.
Everything stopped as that sound filled the room.
His face was pale, and he was staring past me with a frightened look in his eyes. I followed his gaze.
On my other side, Carol was staring down at the baby on my chest with a look I had never seen on her before.
It was not joy.
It was something sharp, desperate, and terrifying.
“Give me MY baby,” she said, voice breaking. “I’m the one who should hold him, not you.”
