Page 9 of Absolution

It’s like someone handed me the future all at once. A full, wild, messy family in one swoop.

And I just keep lying here in this bed, loving them harder every day, hoping my body holds on long enough to get them here.

Hoping Kyle remembers who we were. Who we’re supposed to be. Because I can’t do this alone. Even though right now, it sure feels like I am.

My mom leaves around seven, after fussing over my dinner like usual. She only leaves once I’ve eaten more than a spoonful, which takes some effort. The food sits heavy in my stomach, but I keep it down. Small win.

I fall asleep waiting for Kyle. Still waiting. What feels like minutes later I jolt awake to a sharp pressure deep in my pelvis, low and urgent, like something’s bearing down. Then I feel it. A sudden pop. A rush of warmth between my legs. I don’t have to look. I know.

My water just broke.

My heart stutters as I reach across the bed, arm shaking, trying to wake Kyle. Only to find cold sheets. His side’s empty.

Fumbling for my phone on the nightstand, I start crying. Hot tears spill down my cheeks before I can stop them. I’m shaking, weak, bleeding somewhere inside, and all I can think is, I’m alone.

He left me. Not just tonight. Not just now. But for this entire pregnancy. Through the nausea, the fear, the bone-deep exhaustion. Through every moment I needed him to show up, he didn’t.

I blink through the blur on my screen, the lock screen lighting up. A single text.

‘Gonna be an all-nighter. Don’t wait up.’

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I call him immediately. It rings then goes to voicemail. I call again. And again. Nothing.

Panic crashes over me in waves, but I manage to call 911. I give them my address, try to breathe through the contractions that have already started. The dispatcher tells me to stay calm, which is just… Hilarious.

Hanging up I call my mom. She picks up on the second ring.

“Mom,” I sob, “they’re coming. I think, I think they’re coming.”

“Call 911, We’re on our way,” she says, voice sharp. I can hear the door slam and my dad’s voice saying he’ll drive.

I try Kyle again, over and over, until the sound of sirens drowns out the ringing in my ears.

The paramedics are quick. Calm. Efficient. They load me onto a stretcher, strapping me in while I’m bent sideways, clutching my stomach.

“I can feel them,” I whisper, grabbing one of their arms as the pain rips through me again. “I can feel them-”

Everything spins.

Then black.

I come to in a hospital room. The lights are soft. Machines beep steadily. My throat feels dry as sandpaper.

“Mom?” I croak.

She jolts awake in the chair beside me, eyes red, tissue clutched in one hand.

“Oh, honey,” she breathes, standing and smoothing my hair back like I’m five years old again.

“The babies?” I ask.

Her chin trembles, but she nods. “They’re in the NICU. They made it. They’re fighters.”

I close my eyes in relief, the tears spilling out without warning. “Water,” I manage.

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