Doctor Dearest

“This is a good thing. He’s a good man, I know, but still—don’t lose yourself in this,” she says, tapping the knuckle of her pointer finger against my heart. “Remember to put yourself first, yes?”

I nod, because there’s no sense in arguing with her. We’re inherently different. Her worries and fears are not my own, and I refuse to carry them for her. I can still be independent and self-reliant while building a life with Connor. It doesn’t make me weak to lean on him. We’re stronger together, especially when it comes to raising a child. I think of how attentive he’s been to my needs since we found out I’m pregnant, of the crib he spent hours putting together. He’s going to make a wonderful father and partner. I won’t deprive myself or our future child of that.

“I’ll be fine, Mom. I promise.”

I lean up to kiss her cheek and keep my arm wrapped around her trim waist as we walk toward the island to join everyone else. I come to stand beside Connor and he looks down at me warmly. “Thank you,” I mouth, unable to put into words how grateful I am that he’s arranged this moment for us. Everyone I hold most dear is standing in this kitchen with us.

Noah is finishing up mixing a batch of mimosas before he pours them out into champagne flutes. Lindsey passes me a glass of plain orange juice with a wink and I smile, grateful for her discretion. My parents don’t how about the baby yet. Sometime today, I’ll carve out a private moment to tell them. Maybe I’ll take them up to the nursery and surprise them there. I can already imagine how happy my dad will be, how many pictures he’ll want to take.

“I propose a toast,” Noah says, motioning for everyone to raise their glass before wrapping his arm around our dad’s shoulders. Then he begins.

“To family,” he says, motioning to our parents. “To best friends,” he adds, nodding to Lindsey. “And to best friends becoming family.”

He grins at Connor and we all offer up hearty cheers as we clink our glasses together.EpilogueNatalieI’m standing in the aisle of the grocery store, looking at the array of meat laid out on the shelves in front of me and trying to ignore the pain of a contraction, or at least what I think is a contraction. They started a few hours ago, but I can’t be certain what they are and I refuse to call my doctor, so instead, I’m at the grocery store.

We need food. It’s two weeks before my due date and everyone online says it’s imperative that you pre-plan all your meals, make them, and then stick them in the freezer so you won’t go hungry once the baby comes.

I’m worried we’ll starve. That’s why I’m here, with a cart filled to the brim. I can barely push it.

Connor is at the hospital, but my maternity leave started yesterday. Hence why I’m only now getting to the grocery store for provisions.

Another spasm of pain rocks me to my core and I hunch forward, clutching my knees.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I wheeze through clenched teeth. “Yup. I’m fine.”

I glance up to see a grocery store attendant staring at me with wide, worried eyes. He’s older, in his 70s at least, with a slight figure and thick glasses.

He doesn’t take my answer seriously.

“You don’t look so good.”

“Ah, well, I’m pregnant.”

“I can see that.”

Oh right, the bump. The very obvious bump I’ve been sporting for the last few months. The bump that has made operating nearly impossible and sex extremely difficult (don’t worry, we’ve managed just fine).

“I think I should call someone,” he suggests.

“What? Why?”

“Because I think you’re in labor.”

Oh c’mon. How the hell would he know?

Apparently my question is asked aloud because he answers right away. “I’ve got five daughters of my own and I was there with my wife for every birth. I think I know what it looks like. Also, ma’am, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but your water broke. That’s why I’m here.”

He holds up one of those yellow Slippery floor warning signs and I glance down between my feet.

Ah, okay, I see. I just thought I’d peed myself a little.

“Here, hand me that mop. I’ll clean it up,” I say, not wanting this man to have to deal with my mess.

“No no. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Here, let me. And you know what? I keep a spare change of sweats in my locker…”

Lenny is this kind man’s name. I find that out while he mops up the mess I’ve made on aisle ten and we get to talking. He’s been retired from the military for twenty years and he works this job to keep his mind sharp. He says his wife doesn’t mind the extra spending cash either. He’s 82, he proclaims proudly, and I can’t believe it. He looks so young! I insist he tell me his entire life story because that seems pertinent, and he promises he will, right after he gets me some new pants. I’m still dripping on the floor.