Six hours into labor, clinging to Dave’s hand and my breath, his phone lit up with “Mom.” He stepped into the hall, returned jittery, and wouldn’t meet my eyes. “What is it?” I asked. “I need to go. I’ll be quick,” he said—like we were running errands, not having a baby. A contraction hit. “Dave, don’t.” “It’s my mom,” he murmured. “She needs help. Groceries.” And then he left. My nurse noticed my shaking. “Talk to me.” “My husband left,” I whispered. “For his mother’s groceries.”
She steadied me. I called my dad—he rushed over with fried chicken and more love than I could speak. With the nurse on one side and my dad on the other, I delivered our daughter, Gabrielle. Joy crashed into heartbreak when they placed her on my chest. “He’ll regret this,” Dad said. “But right now it’s you and Gabi.” Before leaving the hospital, I saved the birth video and left it for Dave with a note:....
