I had just come home from work. Five-and-a-half-months pregnant and I was still working; cooking supper and trying to put the finishing touches on a project I had brought home. My life was simple, but happy. I was expecting a son and his father and I filled the evenings looking at books on the stages of pregnancy. The kitchen was full of the smell of cooking potatoes and onions. I heard his car drive up and my heart turned over, glad that he was home early. I tended to get sleepy before eight o'clock. When he walked through the front door, I saw something different in his face. He said, "I need to talk to you." We had been looking for a bigger place. Perhaps he had found the perfect spot? Or maybe the one we had hoped for was not available? Something about the lines in his face startled me. I said, "Okay, what is it?" He looked away from me as he stood there and I remained sitting at the kitchen table. In a flat and emotion-free voice he said, "I am not ready for this level of commitment and responsibility. I want to end our relationship." What I remember is that the room became quiet, like the dead. I could feel something burning and swelling in my throat, something that made me speechless, but caused silent tears to blind my eyes. He continued, "We can remain married and raise the baby. But we will have separate relationships." This, after eleven years?

It is obvious to me now. He knew that I was a decent person, that I wouldn't, couldn't, agree to conduct my life in that way. Or raise a child with that kind of a makeshift family. The next morning, I loaded all my furniture and belongings into my truck, as he stood, grim and silent in the corner of the living room. It didn't even occur to me what a heel he was to not even lift a finger to help. His only comment, "Remember, it is YOU that is leaving." It was difficult to not think of the child inside me as an appendage to my enemy. I knew though, that I would feel differently after he was born.

I was at work, eight months pregnant. I stood to stretch my aching back. I felt a small trickle of fluid escape. Was it instinct that told me? I knew that my baby was coming, three weeks early. I drove myself the 45 miles from work to the hospital, as the doctor instructed me, but stopped off at home for a shower, which the doctor had not instructed me. Walking into the emergency room drew an annoyed stare from the nurse in admissions. Soon, she pointed me to an elevator. "Go to the fourth floor." No wheelchair? No escort? Maybe this was the way it was done. I didn't deliver that night. They made the baby come in the morning. The drug they gave me brought on a quick and violent labor. My son was born. He was handed to me in a green sheet. They told me to rub him and I did. He squeaked. There was no cry. The doctor cast nervous glances at the nurse and at me, "RUB HIM!" "I AM!" I yelled. The nurse grabbed my baby and ran out the door with him. The doctor continued his rough assault to complete the birth. Tears came for many reasons.

Around two hours later, they told me that my baby was alive but that he was in the special care nursery. They wheeled me down to look at him. A small scrap of humanity, red and struggling. My heart hurt for him, and I wanted him more than anything before or since. I was rolled back to my room. I could hear the other mothers with their crying babies, families laughing and talking. My room was dark and silent. No family. No father. No baby. The only human contact I had was the nurse who would come in every two hours and press hard on my belly.

After five days, my son and I were allowed to go home. I gathered my clothes, papers, car seat and baby and carried it all down the hall to the elevator. It was still very hard to walk. Small, carefully placed steps, bent over, carrying my whole world. I finally made it all the way out to the parking lot to my truck.

I had a flat tire.

Wanting to sit down and sob, I instead placed my baby in the bed of the truck in his car seat while I changed the tire.

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