As I called him from labor, he snapped, “Handle it yourself, Claire. Stop being so dramatic!” and left for his mother’s birthday dinner. Three days later, he walked through the door and went completely pale when he saw who was holding my newborn son.

The contraction hit so hard that I almost dropped my phone.

But my husband’s voice was colder than the hospital floor beneath my feet.

“Handle it yourself, Claire. Stop being so dramatic,” Daniel snapped.

Then he hung up.

He went to his mother’s birthday celebration instead.

For three seconds, I stood frozen, staring at the dark screen in my hand, unable to process what had just happened.

A nurse rushed over with a wheelchair while another contraction tore through me.

“Is someone coming?” she asked.

I looked at the silent phone.

“Not my husband,” I whispered.

I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant and standing alone at the maternity entrance, one hand pressed against my stomach while warm fluid soaked through my dress.

For months, Daniel had promised he would be beside me when our son arrived.

Instead, his mother, Vanessa, decided her sixtieth birthday dinner was “a once-in-a-lifetime family event.”

Apparently, so was the birth of our child.

I called him again.

This time, he answered.

I could hear music and laughter behind him.

“Daniel, my water broke. The contractions are four minutes apart.”

Then Vanessa’s voice came through the phone.

“Tell her women have been giving birth for thousands of years.”