The night my water broke, it was 3 a.m. I was alone in our apartment. I called a taxi because I didn’t trust myself to drive. By the time I climbed into the back seat, contractions were already rolling through me like waves. Then it happened — water everywhere. I panicked, sobbing, apologizing over and over.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I kept saying, mortified.
The driver pulled over without hesitation. He took off his jacket, spread it on the seat, and turned to me gently.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” he said. “My wife couldn’t have kids. Let me help.”
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t panic. He held my hand through every contraction, talked to me about breathing, told me I was doing great even when I felt like I was breaking apart. When we reached the hospital, he helped the nurses get me inside and waited until they took over.
When I woke up hours later, exhausted and aching, there were flowers by my bed. A simple note sat beside them: Get well soon, and congratulations.
I cried harder than I had in months.
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