Cal answered on the second ring.
“Cal, it’s Grace.” My voice came out steadier than I expected. “The baby’s coming. Is Owen there?”
“He’s here,” Cal said. His voice was tight. “We just got a call. Structure fire, family trapped. He’s on the engine.”
My stomach dropped.
Of course. Of course, it would be like this.
For the first time, the thought crossed my mind:What if he doesn’t make it in time?
“How bad?” I asked.
“Bad enough.” Cal’s voice softened. “Grace, I can pull him?—”
“No.” The word came out sharp. Certain. “Don’t you dare. There’s a family in that building. He needs to be there.”
“Grace—”
“I’ll call 911. I’ll be fine.” Another contraction was building. I could feel it gathering at the edges. “Just—tell him, okay? When it’s over. Tell him I called.”
I hung up before Cal could argue.
The contraction hit—harder than the last two. I doubled over, gripping the table, breathing through clenched teeth.
When it passed, I checked the time.
Four minutes since the last one.
This baby was coming fast.
I dialed 911.
The dispatcher was calm. Professional. Asked my address, my due date, and how far apart the contractions were.
“Ambulance is on its way,” she said. “About twenty minutes. Roads are icy. We had an early snow this morning.”
Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes alone with contractions four minutes apart.
“Stay on the line with me,” the dispatcher said. “I’ll talk you through it.”
I moved to the living room, thinking maybe I should lie down. The dispatcher—her name was Tina—kept talking. Calm. Steady. She asked questions to keep me focused.
Another contraction hit. I gripped the arm of the couch and breathed through it. Tina was still talking, her voice calm and distant now, like it was coming from another room.
“You’re doing great,” she said. “That’s it. Just breathe.”
The pain was different from what I’d expected. Not sharp, but deep. A rolling pressure that started in my back and wrapped around my entire body.
Between contractions, I looked around the living room.
Gran’s furniture. The afghan she’d crocheted the year I was born. The photos on the mantel—Gran and Grandpa on their wedding day, my mother as a child, me at six years old helping in the garden.
This house had seen so much. Births and deaths. Marriages and divorces. People arriving and people leaving.
And now it was about to see another beginning.
