I used to believe there were moments in a marriage when you could count on the other person without having to ask.
The birth of your first child was supposed to be one of them.
I had never questioned that.
Not until I was lying in a hospital bed, gripping the sheets, while my husband's chair sat empty beside me.
The clock above the door showed 1:17 in the morning.
I knew because I had been watching it for nearly an hour.
Every time a contraction eased, my eyes went back to those numbers.
Then another wave came, and I forgot about everything except getting through it.
Nurse Callie stood near the foot of the bed.
She had been kind to me since we arrived that afternoon.
She spoke softly, explained every change, and never made me feel foolish for asking the same question twice.
But even she had begun looking at the empty chair.
"Would you like me to call somebody else?"
I shook my head.
"He's coming."
I said it like I knew.
I didn't.
I just wasn't ready to say anything different.
The chair had been Reid's idea.
When we first entered the room, he had pulled it close enough that his knee touched the side of my bed.
He had placed his phone on the little table beside it.
Then he had taken my hand and smiled.
He was nervous.
I could tell because he kept rubbing his thumb across my knuckles.
I had teased him about it.
"You know I'm the one doing the hard part, right?"
He laughed.
"I know. I'm just trying to look useful."
It was an ordinary exchange.
Nothing dramatic.
At the time, I thought that was what made it special.
We had been married six years.
Reid wasn't the kind of husband who made speeches about how much he loved me.
He showed it in small ways.
He remembered which side of the bed I preferred.
He brought home the tea I liked without asking.
When I had trouble sleeping during pregnancy, he would get up and sit with me in the kitchen.
Sometimes we talked.
Sometimes we didn't.
He was there.
That had always been enough for me.
And when our son was getting ready to arrive, I expected him to be there in exactly the same way.
I had imagined him beside me.
I had imagined his hand in mine.
I had imagined him asking the nurses too many questions and pretending he wasn't frightened.
Most of all, I had imagined seeing his face when he met our baby.
We had talked about that moment for months.
The baby's name had taken longer than we expected.
We had both made lists.
Some names were crossed out immediately.
Others stayed on the refrigerator for a week before one of us quietly removed them.
Then, one rainy Sunday afternoon, Reid suggested Theo.
I remember standing at the kitchen counter with a cup of tea.
I repeated the name.
"Theo?"
He nodded.
"Doesn't it sound right?"
It did.
We wrote it on a small piece of paper and stuck it beneath a magnet.
For the next three months, whenever we talked about the baby, we called him Theo.
Our Theo.
I had even started saying it when I felt him move.
That afternoon at the hospital, Reid had rested his palm against my stomach.
"You're almost here, little man."
I had laughed.
"He can't hear you through your hand."
"Maybe he can."
Then he kissed my forehead.
That was the last completely ordinary moment I remembered having with my husband.
Just after eight that evening, his phone rang.
I was lying on my side, trying to find a position that didn't make my back hurt.
Reid glanced at the screen.
Something changed in his expression.
It was small.
His smile disappeared, and his eyebrows drew together.
I noticed because I had been watching him.
"What's wrong?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He stood and picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
I heard him listen.
Then he turned slightly away from me.
"What happened?"
The question made me sit up.
Another contraction was beginning, but I tried to ignore it.
Reid listened for a few more seconds.
His free hand moved to his forehead.
"All right. I'm coming."
He ended the call.
I looked at him.
"What happened?"
He was already reaching for his coat.
"It's a family emergency."
Those words stayed with me.
Family emergency.
I remember looking at the door and then back at him.
"What kind of emergency?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Who called?"
He hesitated.
Only briefly.
But I noticed.
"I need to find out."
The contraction tightened.
I reached for the bed rail.
Reid came toward me immediately.
He took my hand and leaned down.
"Hey. Look at me."
I tried.
"Are you leaving?"
He glanced at the door.
Then at me.
"I need to handle something."
I felt my stomach drop.
"Reid, I'm in labor."
"I know."
His voice softened.
"I'm not forgetting that."
I wanted to ask him what could possibly be important enough to make him leave.
But the pain was building, and I couldn't get the words out.
He pressed his forehead against mine.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes."
I stared at him.
"Twenty?"
"Twenty. I promise."
He kissed me.
Then he picked up his phone and walked out.
I watched the door close.
For a few seconds, I expected it to open again.
I thought he might remember something.
His wallet.
His keys.
The jacket he had left draped over the back of the chair.
Anything.
But the door remained shut.
I looked at the chair.
His chair.
The little table still held the empty paper cup from his coffee.
His phone charger was plugged into the wall.
He had taken his phone with him.
I didn't think that mattered.
Not yet.
I expected him to return before the next hour passed.
I expected him to come in with an explanation.
I expected him to apologize for leaving me alone.
Twenty minutes.
That was what he had said.
And I believed him.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: Twenty Minutes Turned Into Hours, and Every Time the Hospital Door Opened I Thought My Husband Had Finally Returned
The Empty Chair Beside My Hospital Bed Was the Last Place I Expected to Find Myself Looking for Him
Part 1 of 4
