I doubled over, gasping.
Caleb muttered, “Drama queen.”
I grabbed my purse, staggered outside, and called 911 from the driveway. The dispatcher stayed on the line until paramedics arrived.
Through the front window, I could still see my family sitting around the table while strangers helped me onto a stretcher.
Three hours later, at St. Joseph Medical Center in Kansas City, Missouri, I gave birth to my son.
Noah was premature, but he was breathing.
I was alone when a nurse placed him against my chest.
Alone when the doctor explained the complications.
And alone when I signed forms with trembling hands.
I called home twice.
Nobody answered.
Mom read the message announcing Noah’s birth but never replied.
Then I remembered the sealed envelope my grandmother had given me before she died.
Inside was a business card and one sentence:
