Feeling a mix of disbelief and betrayal, I left the house, clutching my belly, each step a reminder of the little life that was about to enter the world. I fumbled for my phone and ordered an Uber, praying that it would arrive quickly. The wait felt eternal, every minute stretching into moments of agony, yet I was resolute. I couldn’t rely on anyone else, but I could rely on myself.
When the car finally pulled up, the driver, a kind-looking man named David, immediately noticed my condition. Panic flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by determination. “Let’s get you to the hospital,” he said, glancing nervously at me in the rearview mirror as he started driving. I nodded, unable to speak as another contraction hit me.
We hadn’t made it far when I felt a sudden, undeniable pressure. I gasped, and David’s eyes widened as he realized what was happening. “We might not make it,” I managed to whisper, my voice strained. He pulled the car to the side of the road and jumped out, coming around to the back seat.
