My Husband Told Me to “Handle It Yourself” While I Was in Labor So He Could Stay at His Mother’s Birthday—Then I Made One Phone Call

PART 1 — THE MIDNIGHT CALL

The sharp pain hit while I was standing beside the granite counter in our kitchen in Mechanicsville.

I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant.

My doctor had warned me repeatedly that our baby could arrive at any time, but I had convinced myself I still had several days.

Then my water broke across the hardwood floor.

For several seconds, I simply stared down.

My first child.

My first labor.

And I was alone.

My husband, Brandon, was supposed to be there.

Instead, he had driven almost three hours away to Roanoke for his mother Bernice’s birthday celebration.

She had been planning the party for six months.

Private dining room.

Live band.

Dozens of guests.

Expensive flowers.

A custom cake.

Brandon had insisted he needed to attend.

“You’re not due for two weeks,” he said that morning.