Stephen
There are very few problems in my life that money can’t make easier.
This wasn’t one of them.
I stood beside Laura’s hospital bed while a monitor tracked our daughter’s heartbeat and another traced contractions that kept appearing far too regularly across the screen.
Eight minutes.
Then seven.
Then six.
Every time another line climbed, Laura’s fingers tightened around mine.
Nobody had said she was definitely in labor yet.
Nobody had needed to.
“Mr. Case?”
I looked up.
The obstetrician stood at the foot of the bed with Laura’s chart in her hand. She’d already examined Laura, ordered bloodwork, started fluids, and used enough medical terms that I had stopped pretending I understood all of them.
“What are you doing to stop it?”
Laura squeezed my hand.
“Stephen.”
“No. I
