The door slammed shut. Gerald retreated to his den. The car engine roared to life and then faded, leaving me alone in the house as pain ripped through me.
I collapsed onto the sofa, tears streaming down my cheeks. How had it come to this? How had the man who once vowed to protect me walked away while I was in labor with his children?
Twenty minutes passed. The contractions were closer now, barely three minutes apart. My hands shook as I reached for my phone, but the screen blurred. My parents were on a cruise celebrating their fortieth anniversary. My best friend Kimberly had moved to Portland the month before. Every other contact was a relative of Travis or someone who always sided with him.
Another contraction struck—so powerful I screamed. Warm liquid ran down my leg. My water had broken.
Panic gripped me. I needed help immediately. I tried to stand, but my legs buckled. The room spun. Horror set in as I realized I might deliver on this couch—or worse, that my babies might not survive without urgent medical care.
The doorbell rang. For a moment I thought I imagined it. Then it rang again, followed by knocking.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I recognized the voice. Lauren. Lauren Mitchell—my college roommate, whom I hadn’t seen in nearly two years. We’d drifted apart after graduation as our lives went in different directions.
“Lauren!” I screamed. “Help me, please.”
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