Laura
The first real contraction hit while I was arguing with Stephen about a plate.
One plate.
That was all I was trying to put into the dishwasher, but ever since my false alarm at Samuel’s hospital room two days ago, my husband had decided pregnancy made me incapable of basic movement.
“I can put away a plate,” I told him.
“I know.”
“Then move.”
“You don’t have to do it.”
“It’s a plate, Stephen. Not a piano.”
“We don’t own a piano.”
I stared at him.
“That’s what you got from that?”
His mouth twitched. “I’m protecting my wife.”
“You’re hovering over your wife like an extremely handsome, extremely annoying security guard.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
“I’m reconsidering it.”
I reached around him.
Then the contraction wrapped around my lower back.
I froze.
This wasn’t like
