APRIL
With a sour mouth, I stare at Jackson where he stands. His lips are parted slightly, hands paused mid-air, words stuck in his throat.
I stay on the floor, hugging the toilet bowl. My period is late by six days and my breasts ache. It doesn't take a genius to realize what's going on. I've been in denial, waiting patiently for my period to arrive, but it never did.
And now, as I've just thrown up my breakfast, I can't ignore this anymore.
"What… are you sure?" Jackson stammers.
I lick my lips. The inside of my mouth is filmy, and I need to rinse it out and re-brush my teeth.
"Yeah," I say, nodding slightly.
"Like, sure-sure?" he prompts again.
I give him a look. "I've been through it enough times, Jackson," I snap.
"Right."
The air is quiet, still. Neither of us know how to react. It's impossible to ignore the small flicker of excitement in my chest, the flame stoked by a bit of oxygen.
But the snuffer sits in the corner, waiting for me to fill with hope so it can put that little flame out.
I'm cautious to get excited for anything anymore, because of how badly I've been burned. Especially anything to deal with children and pregnancy. I've learned the hard way to keep my expectations near the ground. That way, it's not as easy to get hurt.
I stare at Jackson as I sift through my thoughts. Now isn't the time for an in-depth conversation about the miniscule fetus inside me. Now is the time for moving away from the toilet, straightening up, and making it to the adoption agency in time for our appointment.
"We have to deal with this later," I say, pushing away from the bowl.
He snaps back to earth. "Right, right…" he says, still out of it. "We have to go."
It's the middle of winter, February. The winter months after Christmas are always the worst in Chicago because there are no holidays to look forward to, only pure ice and snow. The cold seems never-ending, the snow nonstop. Before the heat kicks on in the car, I hunch my shoulders by my ears and shiver, clasping my gloved hands together.
As we drive slowly, Jackson plants a hand on my knee. He rubs it comfortingly, but keeps his eyes faced forward.
"It'll be fine," he says.
I'm not sure which one of us he's convincing.
"I know," I say.
I can say the same for myself.
I let out a long gust of air that appears in front of me like a billow of smoke. "Should we tell Janice?" I ask.
He glances at me quickly. "I don't know," he says. "I don't think so. Don't you think we should talk about it first? When we have the time to actually talk about it?"
I nod, staring down at my boots. "Yeah," I say. "Yeah, you're right."
"It can stay between us for now," he says. "We can just go in, meet the birth mom like we planned on doing. To them, nothing's different. It's just a meeting."
"Well, a pretty serious meeting," I say. "It's not the interview. She actually chose us."
"Yeah, I know."
I sigh again, this time through my nose. I can't think too deeply about this right now, or I'll spiral. And I can't afford a spiral when we're about to go meet a woman who we're trying to impress.
When we get to the agency, Jackson winds an arm around the small of my back as we trek through the icy parking lot. I look at him briefly, noticing the extra care he's taking, but then wonder if I'm reading too much into it. But had he not known I'm pregnant, would he had just taken my hand instead of guiding me like this?
"Thanks," I say, quietly, arms drawn into my chest to keep warm.
He smiles slightly. "I got you."
We make it inside and immediately shed our winter gear, hanging it on a coat rack near the door. Jackson helps me out of my coat and gives me a kiss on the forehead, and I squeeze his hand as we go sit down in the lobby.
"Mr. and Mrs. Avery," we hear, and look up to see Janice coming down the hallway. She's dressed in a long purple cardigan and glasses with rhinestones at the corners. She always smells like incense because it burns in her office. Usually, I don't mind. But now, my nose is affected by pregnancy and the smell practically overtakes me.
"Hi," Jackson says, and we both stand.
Professionally, I still go by April Kepner. It's how everyone knows me. But legally, I did change my name to April Avery because it was important to me to have something of Jackson's. To me, the name meant even more than the ring.
"I'm so glad you could make it," Janice says, smiling. "Follow me back to my office. She's waiting for you."
My stomach twists and I might throw up again, I'm that nervous. I wring my hands together and take a deep breath, glancing up at Jackson while we walk behind Janice.
"It's okay," he says, always my pillar of strength. "We got this."
"We got this," I repeat, in a whisper.
As we walk, he circles an arm around my shoulders and firmly kisses the side of my head, reassuring me that he's here and we're okay.
Janice leads us into a small room, her office that we've been in a handful of times. As usual, the smell is strong, but I put on a brave face through watering eyes and ignore it as best I can.
"Sophia," Janice says, and the small woman sitting in one of three chairs picks up her head. "This is Jackson and April Avery. The adoptive couple you chose."
Jackson and I walk around the chairs to sit down, then see her face clearly. She's Caucasian with a small frame, dainty shoulders and bony hands. Her eyes are too big for her face and her lips are pale - she is embodying the nerves inside me right now.
"Hi," she says, meekly, extending her hand. "I'm Sophia."
"It's so nice to meet you," I say, feeling warmth rise in my gut that reminds me of what I'd feel when Rosie would kick. I feel an urge to mother this girl. She can't be more than eighteen. "I'm April. This is my husband, Jackson. We're so happy to be here, and we're so grateful you chose us."
We sit down. Sophia is on the far left, me in the middle, and Jackson to my right.
"The reason I like to bring couples and birth mothers together is so you can all get to know one another," Janice says. "April and Jackson. I asked you to prepare some questions you might have for Sophia, and she's brought along some that she has for you as well."
My eyes dart to the girl's lap, where she's holding a folded-up piece of paper with doodles at the corners.
"Yes, of course," I say, then look to Jackson as my hands are clasped on my lap. "Babe, did you want to start, or me?"
"Uh, I can take the floor for a minute," he says, then nods towards Sophia. "First off, I want to tell you how much we appreciate what you're doing. We appreciate everything. What you're doing is no small feat."
"At all," I echo.
Jackson looks back and makes eye contact with me. We don't have a sheet of paper with questions because we've prepared in the days leading up to this interview what we wanted to ask her.
"So, when's your baby due?" he asks.
"Early October," she says. "I'm about four weeks along right now." She skims a hand over her belly, and I have to resist the urge to do the same.
"That's great," Jackson says, nodding.
"I know you can't tell yet," Sophia says. "But I really am pregnant. And I'm not a slut."
My eyes widen. "Oh, no, honey," I say. "We didn't… no, we don't think like that."
Creases appear on her forehead and her mouth turns into a firm, straight line. One tear drips down her cheek as she says, "Good. Because I'm not."
"Is that what made you start thinking about adoption?" Jackson continues. "That people would think you're a slut? Because-"
"You don't understand," Sophia says. She turns to us, and her fine, long blonde hair swivels with her. "I'm an honor student. I'm in the Top 10 of my class. I play center forward on the varsity soccer team, and I got a full ride to UCLA. This baby… this baby isn't mine. It doesn't feel like it is, anyway. And I don't want it. Even if I tried to raise it, which I couldn't do, it would always know that. Babies are like dogs that way, they can smell it on you. I want to give away it to a couple like you guys, who'll take care of it and give it everything it needs. I can't do that. I'm a freaking kid. None of this was ever supposed to happen."
"I understand," Jackson says.
"Do you mind if I ask… what the father thinks?" I ask, softly.
Her eyes flash. "He wanted me to get rid of it," she says. "Kill it, abort it, or whatever. And I even went to the place, to the clinic, I was gonna try. But I got freaked out and left. There were people protesting outside the door, calling me a baby killer."
I flinch at the term and tip my head to the side, closing my eyes for a moment. Jackson's hand finds its way to the middle of my back, where it stays.
"That's awful," I say.
"So, yeah. I don't have a relationship with him, and I guess I never really did. He doesn't give a shit what I do. We broke up."
"I'm really sorry to hear that," I say.
She shrugs angrily. "He doesn't matter."
"What about your parents?" Jackson asks.
She lets out a long breath. "They don't want me to keep it, either. It's been their dream for me to go to UCLA my whole life. That's what they want for me. And that's what I want, too. They don't want to have a grandkid right now." She shakes her head. "They look at me different ever since it happened. Like they don't even know me anymore."
I nod slowly. "I know how that feels," I say.
She scoffs, sounding just like a teenager. "I doubt it," she says. "What have you ever done wrong?"
I raise my eyebrows. "A whole lot," I say. "Believe it or not."
She rolls her eyes. "Like what?"
"Well, my mom had high hopes for me, too," I say. I'm not sure why I'm delving into this, but I feel the need to. This woman, girl, really, is holding the life of our future child. "She still does. I never disappointed her with my career, that's always come easily for me. But what she wanted were grandbabies, and lots of them. Um, I had a miscarriage when I was 23. I didn't know I was pregnant."
Her eyes widen and soften as she looks over to me. She doesn't make eye contact, though. She stares at the sparkling ring on my finger instead.
"I'm…" she trails off.
"It was brutal," I say, openly. "It ripped me apart. Without getting into the whole story, it separated me from the love of my life." I nod towards Jackson. "Him."
Sophia's eyes flit to my husband now, as she tries to put the pieces together.
"But we found each other again, ten years later," I say, with a smile. "And we planned to have a baby after we got married. I got pregnant again, but only carried the fetus for six weeks. Then, I had another miscarriage. On the shower floor."
She's silent, taking in every word I say.
"But we persevered and tried again," I continue. "And I got pregnant for a third time. That time, I thought it would stick. I had my Rosie for 20 weeks. She was big enough to kick, big enough to name, big enough to get attached to. But I lost her. One morning, she stopped moving. And I bled through our mattress."
We've since gotten a new one and thrown the old out.
"And with every new miscarriage, something inside me died. It was more than the baby, more than the hope for new life. It was the hope I had for myself, you know? Why couldn't my body do what a woman was created to do? What was so inadequate about me, that I couldn't?" I shake my head. "The point I'm trying to reach centers around the look on my mother's face. Every time I told her, she seemed a little older. A little more weathered, more disappointed. Not in me, but what my body had taken away. Again. That's not me projecting, either. I know that woman, I grew up with her. And with every new miscarriage, she felt I drifted a bit further away."
I clear my throat. Janice is silent, and Sophia fidgets.
"I know what it feels like to not know yourself," I say. "I know what it's like to have your parents see you differently because of something you can't control." I reach across and take her hand; it's cold in mine. "It doesn't make you a bad person, Sophia. It changes you, but there's always something to be learned from it. A new part of yourself to get familiar with. No matter if other people understand or not. What matters is if you do. That you give yourself grace, that you give yourself room to grieve, to grow, to cope however you need to. You think of you," I tell her.
I let out a long breath.
"I'm sorry," I say, smiling nervously. "I know I went on a-"
Interrupting my sentence, Sophia flies out of her chair and throws her arms around my shoulders. She tucks her face into my neck and my skin dampens instantly; my instinct is to wrap my arms around her and hug her back. So, I close my eyes and hold her, the girl who bears my child, and I don't let go.
…
In the car after the meeting, Jackson and I sit with the radio playing softly. The volume is low, but I still hear 'The Best You Had' by Nina Nesbitt.
I point to the speakers and smile at him, halfway. "Hey," I say. "It's our song."
He returns the subtle grin. "Oh, yeah," he says.
We're quiet for another moment, so many big decisions sitting between us. It's hard to know where to begin, or how.
"I felt a real connection with Sophia," I say, which is the truth.
I felt the innate urge to take care of her, to mother her, though she made it clear she didn't need a keeper. I got her phone number before we left, just in case she ever needs support. I have a feeling she will. Sometimes, being pregnant can make you feel like an island. I have no doubt her friends will pare away once they find out. It's simply how high school relationships work.
"I know you did," he says. "I did, too. She was a really nice girl."
"Special," I say.
He nods. I sigh.
"What are we gonna do?" I ask, spreading my fingers out over my knees.
He lets out the same sigh. Finally the words are out in the open.
"Before," he says. "You said you didn't think you could do it again."
"Yeah," I say.
He chews on his lower lip. He doesn't know what to say next, and I'm walking on the same eggshells. I don't want to say the wrong thing and start a fight. Because if we fight about anything, it's the concept of bringing a child into this world. I get defensive because I feel lesser, and he gets defensive because he feels helpless. We've gone through plenty of therapy to figure that out.
"But I remember Dr. Hollar talking about a stitch," I say, treading carefully.
"That woman," Jackson grumbles.
I reach over and touch his thigh. He softens when I do.
"I'm not saying we'd go back to her," I say. "But after Rosie, she told us there was a stitch that would help my cervix. It's called a cerclage, I Googled it."
"You Googled it?"
I nod, admitting it.
"And you'd be open to doing that?"
I puff my cheeks out, exhaling long and slow. "I've wanted to be pregnant for so long," I say. "I thought I was ready to give up, I really did. But, I don't know now. That little shimmer of hope is really hard to ignore. And we might end up getting hurt again. Worse than ever. But it just seems like it's worth a try. What's the other option? Aborting it? You know I can't do that." I pause. "This baby deserves a chance, at least. And I think we deserve that chance, too."
He stares at the steering wheel before drifting to my face, where his eyes settle. "What about the adoption, then?"
I run my nails over the pads of my fingers. "Is it selfish to want both?" I say. "Do people do that? Will they even let us?"
My phone feels heavier with the addition of Sophia's number. If we pulled out now, we'd put her back at square one. Abusing her trust, after all she's been through.
"I don't know," he says. "But if they did, would you want to?"
"Would you?" I ask.
He opens his mouth, but waits to speak. He blinks a few times and says, "Raise twins, essentially."
"Basically."
He shrugs one shoulder. "I mean, people do it all the time."
"Yeah, they do," I say.
"And we could," he says.
What I say next comes out as a whisper. I'm too nervous to say it louder. "I want to," I say.
A smile grows on his face. "Me, too," he says.
…
Surprisingly, Janice clears us to continue with the adoption because Sophia is open to it. I spoke to her on the phone after Jackson talked it over with Janice, and she said she would love for the baby to be raised with a sibling. She said she hated being an only child, and hoped differently for the baby.
I've noticed she never calls it her baby. She always says 'the baby,' generally. I can't say I blame her for not wanting to take ownership of something she'll eventually hand off. But still, it catches me off-guard every now and then.
Jackson and I get in touch with a new doctor who has been in the field for over twenty years. Her name is Dr. Cooke, and she assures us that she will make sure this pregnancy goes as it should. Looking into her eyes is comforting, like she's holding my hand without touching me. I feel safe with her, like I can trust her and she'll do everything she can to make sure my baby and I have as little complications as possible.
I spend the first 14 weeks of my pregnancy worrying. It's impossible not to. I go on leave from teaching so I don't have to move as much, though I know it's not necessary. I know I'm able to move, but I don't want to do anything that will put this pregnancy in jeopardy. This is the one that has to work, the one that will work. I'm doing everything in my power to make it so.
When the stitch is put in, I finally let out a sigh of relief. I feel secure and stable with a reinforcement in my body to make sure everything stays together. No baby will fall out of my weakened cervix. It'll stay in there all the way to term, and I'll finally be able to see a pregnancy through.
Jackson and I are happier than ever. At 20 weeks, we're headed to the hospital for an appointment where we'll find out whether we'll be having a boy or girl. Sophia already knows the sex of the baby she's carrying, but she's keeping it a surprise until we find out about the one inside me.
It's strange, but they already feel like twins. Sophia and I spend a lot of time together, and we've become friends of sorts. It's refreshing, hearing her take on things I would normally never think about. Through an unexpected vessel, I've been given a new insight on the world.
"Alright, you guys," Dr. Cooke says. "You wanna know what you're having, right?"
I smile and laugh slightly, grasping Jackson's hand as she roves the sensor around my protruding belly. Just like Rosie, this baby wakes me up every morning with kicks that are surprisingly strong. Jackson says it's going to be a little soccer player.
"Yeah, we do," Jackson says, squeezing my fingers.
Dr. Cooke moves the sensor a bit further. "Well, it looks like… your little girl is sucking her thumb right now."
I gasp and look to my husband with wide eyes. "A girl," I breathe.
He leans forward and presses a deft kiss to my forehead, and I lean into his touch with closed eyes. "A little girl," he echoes.
"You're gonna have a daughter," Dr. Cooke says. "Congratulations. She's growing perfectly, and her heart rate is strong. You should be very proud."
"We are," I say, eyes glistening with tears.
After the ultrasound is over, she moves onto the physical exam. The stitch is still nicely placed, not weakening at all, holding just like it should. I leave the appointment feeling great, and the baby does, too. She's spinning and twirling like she heard and understood every word of what happened in there.
"I have to call Sophia," I say.
The two of us are due for prenatal yoga today, so Jackson drops me off at the studio that Sophia is already waiting outside of. Her belly is about the same size as mine, as she's only two weeks ahead.
"See you later, little mama," Jackson says, dropping a kiss on my temple.
"I'll text you when I need to be picked up," I say.
He nods, and I get out of the car. I wave to my friend and she smiles back, standing up straight from where she'd been leaning against the building.
"Hey, April," she says. "Did you just come from your appointment?"
"Yes!" I say, excitedly, swinging my yoga mat over my shoulder. "We found out we're having a girl."
Sophia beams. "Well, then you're having two girls," she says. "Congratulations."
I cover my mouth with my hands. "Oh, my god!" I squeal, then throw my arms around her. "Thank you."
She laughs. "Why are you thanking me?"
I pull away and wipe my eyes as we head into the building. "I'm never gonna stop thanking you," I say.
So far, she's denied the opportunity to be in her baby's life. I've advocated for an open adoption because I want to stay her friend, but she doesn't want to know her child, and she doesn't want her child to know her. I think it's because she thinks they'll think she's a disappointment, or they'll be ashamed of her, neither of which are true. I've already told her that we'll sing her praises every day, and always let the baby know where they came from.
But still, she holds fast to her decision. After the baby is born, she'll essentially disappear. When I think about that, I miss my friend as she still stands in front of me. She's dead-set on the idea, though, claiming she'll have the baby and go to college to follow her original plan. She won't look back.
"Do you have any names picked out?" she asks, as we fan our mats out on the shiny hardwood floor.
"We do, yeah," I say, straightening the corners. "We had a boy and girl name chosen. So, now that we found out, we already know what we'll call her."
Sophia raises her eyebrows, expectant.
"Stella," I say, overjoyed to be saying the baby's name aloud and knowing it's hers. "Stella Rosemary."
"That's so cute," Sophia says. "Rosemary for…"
"Her sister," I say, with a nod.
"How about names for this baby?" she asks, hands on her belly.
"We've thought about those, too," I say. "But we wanted your input before we chose anything."
She shakes her head. "No," she says. "You guys, no. It's not my baby. It's your baby. I don't need to have a say."
"We want you to," I insist. "More than anything. Just on her name. Nothing else. I won't ask anything else of you."
She gives me a look that's very fitting of her age.
"Just pick between two options," I say. "That's all I'm asking."
"Okay," she says, quietly.
"Harper, or Madelyn?" I ask.
She sits on it for only a moment. "Harper," she answers.
"Perfect," I say. "Then her name will be Harper Sophia."
…
I let myself feel excited for Stella's arrival. For some reason, I barely spend any time obsessing or worrying. I feel at ease, comfortable, and I live in the moment.
I relish each of her kicks. I celebrate each new craving, although Jackson has some complaints when I get up in the middle of the night and eat pickles. As I gain weight, I don't complain. I enjoy putting on extra padding for her.
I get rounder by the day, or so it seems. In September, when I'm 7 months along, I walk around the house in running shorts and a sports bra. I sweat through any other fabric, so it's not worth wearing.
"How you doing in there, sweet girl?" I ask Stella, who's rolling. I look down and see a foot pressed against my belly, so I push back against it. She's strong, so she pushes against my hand again. "Hi, baby. It's Mama."
While I wait for Jackson to come home, I eat frosting out of the container with my finger and pop in a couple dark chocolates after. My first cravings were salty, but now they're sweet. There are treats hidden in almost every corner of this house. For emergencies, of course.
Another thing that's picked up since my pregnancy has furthered is my sex drive. When the front door comes open, I power walk to meet my husband as he comes in and place my hands on his chest as he takes off his bag.
"Jackson," I say, swallowing a bit of chocolate. "I need you."
He looks at me with a funny expression on his face. "Can I take my shoes off first?" he asks, playfully.
"If you go fast," I say.
He runs a hand in circles over my stomach, smiling at me. "Are you about to explode?"
"Worse," I say. "Jesus, I'm so horny! You don't know what it's like!"
"I lived through the years between 12 and 25," he says. "Believe me, I know. Just let me go change. Are we going upstairs, or…?"
"I'm ready now," I say, finding my way to the couch.
"I'll be right back down."
I strip naked and wait for him, my whole body buzzing. When this urge comes on, it's impossible to stop or slow down. We don't have much sex anymore because I get a little paranoid about the stitch, but we do plenty of other things.
When he comes downstairs, my hand is already between my legs. Not doing a lot, just keeping myself warm.
"It was that bad?" he asks, sitting next to me.
I take my hand out. "You were taking a long time," I say.
"Well, I'm here now," he says. "And I'm gonna give my wife an orgasm. So, come here."
He lays me down and bends one knee against the back of the couch, pushing the other leg off so my foot is flat on the floor. I reach past my bulging belly and hold onto his head while he eats me out, every muscle relaxing while he gives me what I need.
"Oh, that feels so good," I say, moving my hands away from his head so I can grab my breasts tightly. They're more sensitive than ever. "Oh, god, baby. Keep going."
The sounds his mouth makes against me are wet and dirty, and they only turn me on further. I work my hips against his face and he does his best to hold me down, but I'm too powerful. When I come, I'm a mess of twitching muscles and spasms, and I can barely catch my breath.
"Your face is so red," Jackson says, sitting up on his knees to look at me.
"Leave me alone," I breathe. "Stella's on my lungs, I swear."
He leans forward and kisses my belly all over, humming against the skin. "Hi, little star," he says, using a nickname we've already coined.
Her half of the nursery is decorated with wallpaper with subtle stars on it, and a star mobile hangs above her crib. On the other side, Harper's is decorated with an ocean motif, per Sophia's inadvertent request. She told me once that she always pictures herself at the ocean when she wants to feel calm. I haven't told her how we decorated the baby's room, because that's information she doesn't want to know. But it's a comfort to me, knowing Harper will have that subtle connection with her birth mom.
"What are you doing in there?" Jackson asks the baby.
"Making Mama have to pee," I say, giggling. I run my hands through Jackson's hair and he gazes up at me with love in his eyes.
"I like hearing you say that," he says.
"What?"
He smiles. "Mama. It fits you."
I give him a sweet look with a smile. I don't know what to say in response. He already knows how I feel.
"You've been waiting long enough," he says, still skimming his hands over my belly. Stella twirls for him, already so in love with her daddy.
"We both have," I say, then trace a line on his forehead. "You're gonna be such a good father."
He plants a firm kiss in the middle of my stomach. Stella presses back against him, like always.
"And now, we get two," he says.
"Two babies," I sigh, blinking at the ceiling.
We have double everything. Two cribs, two changing tables, two dressers already full of clothes from the baby shower. Everyone close to me knows the situation, but Sophia declined the invitation to come. She said she didn't want to feel like the celebration was for her, and that my family and friends were too nice to not make it seem like that. I understood her decision, but wished her there all the same.
We have two infant car seats and a double stroller. The jogger was donated to Goodwill not long after we lost Rosie, but going to pick up a new one was a joyful experience. The same salesgirl helped us out, and this time I wasn't guilty bringing home the items.
We have a countless number of pacifiers and diapers. So many baby toys and bottles, but just one breast pump. We have two specially monogrammed blankets and two framed photos of the girls' sonograms hung next to their cribs.
And between Jackson and I, we have two beating hearts ready to love these babies as soon as they come into our world.
…
When I'm 36 weeks pregnant on October 1st, I go into labor. Dr. Cooke said that it might happen, so the stitch came out a few days ago. A 36-week delivery is nothing to be worried about, she said.
So, as we gather our things, including the hospital duffel bag that's been packed for days, I'm not the one freaking out. Jackson is doing enough of that for the both of us.
"Do you have the bag?" he calls.
I look down at it, slumped on the floor. "Right here, next to me," I say. "You gotta carry it, though. It's too heavy."
"Yeah, I'll get it," he pants. "Water? Do you need water? Are you hungry? Will they have food?"
I can't help but laugh. "Jackson, they'll have food," I say.
"But food you like?"
"I'll be fine."
"How are your contractions?" he asks, still flying around the kitchen trying to gather who-knows-what.
"Still five minutes," I say. "I don't really wanna have one standing up, so could you hurry?"
"I'm coming," he says, rushing to the door with an array of snacks in his hands. "I didn't know. I know you get picky. So, I just thought-"
"Did you clean up the stain on the floor?" I ask, waddling out the door.
My water broke near the dishwasher, as I was unloading it.
"Yeah," he says, dumping the food into the hospital bag and winding an arm around the small of my back. "Careful, careful," he says. "I got you. Go slow."
"I'm going as slow as I can," I say, smiling at him. "Baby, they're just stairs."
"Stairs you could easily fall down," he quips, and I shake my head.
He helps me into the car and even buckles my seatbelt for me.
"Okay, we got this. We're going. Do we have everything? Did you get shoes?"
"I'm wearing shoes, babe."
"Okay," he says, then sets his hands on the wheel. "I'm going. We're driving. We're going to the hospital."
I close my eyes and do some deep breathing on the way there. As we're about halfway, my phone starts to ring from my purse, and I reach to get it.
"Hello?" I say, head leaned back.
"April, hi, it's Janice," she says. "I'm calling to let you know that Sophia's in labor."