“My contractions have started!” I cried during family dinner. Dad coldly told me to call emergency services and stop disturbing everyone. No one helped. One week later, my parents arrived smiling, expecting to meet their grandchild. I reminded them what they had done. Then the man standing behind me opened the door, and my father’s face instantly lost all color.

At thirty-one weeks pregnant, I already knew better than to expect much tenderness from my family. Still, I never imagined they would leave me sitting at the dinner table while my contractions came five minutes apart.

“Dad,” I cried, gripping the chair. “My contractions have started.”

My father, Richard Hale, barely looked away from the football game.

“Call emergency services and stop disturbing us,” he snapped.

My mother, Denise, sighed as though I had spilled something on the carpet. My younger brother, Caleb, kept eating.

No one moved.

“I can’t drive like this.”

“Then call an ambulance,” Dad said. “You’re an adult, Emily.”

Another contraction ripped through me.