Page 104 of Where We Call Home

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice calmer but still laced with urgency. “Please, can you get her a doctor?”

Theo nudged her way forward in the wheelchair, her calm composure a stark contrast to my barely contained panic. She started speaking to the woman behind the desk, her tone soothing, her strength humbling me.

I stepped back, raking a hand through my hair as I tried to pull myself together. Fear was clawing at my insides, raw and relentless. The thought of anything happening to her or the baby was too much. My actions had been out of line, and I knew it. But damn it, I was scared. I was more scared than I’d ever been in my life.

“Sir, we’re going to take her back now,” the receptionist called to me after a moment, her tone much gentler.

I moved quickly, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. Theo was sitting quietly, her hands gripping the wheelchair’s arms, her breathing slow and measured.

“Can I go with her?” I asked, my voice low, almost pleading.

Theo reached for me, her pinky hooking around mine. That small touch unraveled me. She looked up, her face pale and steady, as she managed a soft, reassuring smile. “I’ll be okay,” she murmured.

I squeezed her hand, reluctant to let her go but knowing I had to. As a nurse approached to take her back, she gave me one last look—a look that told me she was holding it together.

And then she was gone, leaving me standing there, helpless and a bit hollow.

I spent the rest of the night in a stiff waiting room chair, my legs bouncing restlessly, my mind spinning in endless loops. Hours seemed to stretch into days. At some point, I must’ve drifted off because the next thing I knew, a doctor was standing in front of me.

He was tall and thin, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, the sort of face you instinctively trusted. I shot to my feet, every muscle in my body tense as I waited for him to speak.

“She’s okay,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “The baby is okay too. It was a case of Braxton Hicks, false contractions that can feel very real and understandably scary.”

A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding rushed out of me, leaving me lightheaded with relief.

“We’ve put her on bed rest,” the doctor continued. “Very limited activity until the baby comes. We don’t want to risk inducing labor, so we’ll monitor her closely. She can go home in the morning.”

I nodded, the weight of his words sinking in.

She was okay.

The baby was okay.

That was all that mattered.

Thirty-Seven

The couch had become my best friend. Since that night in the hospital a couple days ago, I’d barely moved from this spot.

When Rhodes was here, I never wanted for anything. He catered to my every wish, my every need without hesitation.

I was hungry? He was in the kitchen, whipping up something to eat.

Had to use the bathroom? He was there, helping me get there.

Cold? He’d drape an extra blanket over me without a word.

Normally, I’d feel overwhelmed by someone hovering over me like that. Suffocated, even. But Rhodes had this way of making it feel natural, seamless like caring for me wasn’t a burden but something hewantedto do.

The morning we came home from the clinic, I was so exhausted from the poking and prodding that I passed out on the couch almost immediately. While I slept, he found my phone and called my mom, letting her know what had happened and that everything was okay. The next day, she came over, and we spent time together.

Today was the first day I was completely alone since the scare. It was also the first day I started to feel like myself again. The doctors had made it clear we were playing a waiting game now—keeping the baby comfortable for as long as possible until it was time.

Any day now, I thought. The idea filled me with equal parts excitement and anxiety.

I kept things simple and easy: watching TV, preparing light meals, and napping when my body demanded it. With the quiet came thoughts I couldn’t escape.

Over the last few days, I’d been stuck on how Rhodes had reacted at the hospital, the memory of his face etched into my mind.

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