The knock on our front door came at exactly 2:07 a.m.
At first, I thought I had imagined it. The house was dark and silent except for the steady rain tapping against the windows. Then it came again—harder this time.
Beside me, my wife groaned and pulled the blanket over her head.
“Who even does that at this hour?” she muttered.
I dragged myself out of bed and looked through the peephole. My stomach tightened instantly.
It was our neighbor, Lily.
She was only twenty-four and eight months pregnant. Even through the distorted glass, I could see panic written all over her face. Her hoodie was soaked from the rain, and one arm wrapped protectively around her stomach.
I opened the door immediately.
“Lily? What happened?”
“I—I’m sorry,” she whispered, shivering. “I didn’t know who else to call. Something feels wrong.”
My wife appeared behind me, irritated and half asleep.
“Oh, come on,” she snapped. “Not this again.”
Lily’s face fell.
My wife crossed her arms. “She’s been dramatic this entire pregnancy. Last month she thought she was in labor because of heartburn.”
“I know,” Lily said quietly. “I’m sorry. But this feels different.”
For illustrative purposes only
I looked at her more carefully then. She wasn’t acting dramatic. She looked terrified.
“What exactly are you feeling?”
“The baby hasn’t moved much tonight,” she said. “And I’m having pain in my back and stomach.”
That was enough for me.
“I’m getting my keys.”
