I was nine hundred miles away in Brightwater, with swollen ankles and a nursery half painted.
My husband, Noah, looked at me sobbing on the edge of our bed and said, “Pack a bag. We’re going.”
My doctor didn’t love the idea. But my pregnancy had been perfect. No complications. No warning signs. She checked me over and cleared me to fly, as long as I kept it short and came straight home.
My dad pulled through.
He was gray and thin and furious at his cardiologist for banning bacon for life, but he was alive. I sat by his hospital bed for four days, holding his hand. On the last morning, he squeezed my fingers and said something that didn’t make sense at the time.
“Your mother would’ve loved being a grandma, Cal.” His eyes were wet. “She’d have been so scared for you, flying in your condition. She never trusted anything about being pregnant after… well.”
