“Stop Exaggerating.”

“Emily, there are still dishes in the dining room.”

Patricia Caldwell said it without looking at me.

She was sitting at the kitchen island with a glass of wine in front of her, scrolling through photographs from the party on her phone. Her heels were gone, her feet tucked beneath the stool, and she looked pleasantly tired in the way people do after hosting an evening someone else actually worked.

I was eight months pregnant, standing at her sink at 12:14 in the morning with both hands braced against the counter.

Behind me were two roasting pans, eleven wineglasses, a stack of dessert plates, and a silver serving tray crusted with something I no longer had the energy to identify.

My doctor had told me three days earlier not to stay on my feet for long stretches.

Nathan knew that.

His mother knew it too.

I had mentioned it before the first guest arrived.

Melissa came through the doorway carrying six more plates.

“Found these in the living room.”

She placed them beside the sink.

I stared at them.

“Can somebody else finish?”

Melissa glanced toward her mother.

Patricia sighed.

“Emily, we’re all tired.”

“I know. I’m asking Nathan.”

My husband was ten feet away, leaning against the refrigerator with his phone in his hand.

He finally looked up.

“Mom’s been entertaining thirty people all night.”

I waited.

“And?”

His expression tightened.

“And just finish these. Then we can go.”

I looked down at the plate in my hands.

There was a smear of red sauce along its edge.

That plate stayed in my memory longer than almost anything else from that night.

Because ten minutes later, I was gripping the same counter and telling my husband something was wrong.

And he was asking me to keep washing.

The Last Stack of Plates

The party had started at six.

Patricia called it a “small family dinner,” which in her language meant thirty-two people, catered appetizers she wanted transferred onto her own serving dishes so nobody would know they were catered, and a dining table extended halfway into the living room.

I had arrived early because Nathan asked me to.

“Mom gets stressed before these things.”

I should have said no.

Instead, I sliced lemons, warmed rolls, arranged appetizers, carried drinks, found extra chairs, replaced hand towels in the downstairs bathroom, and spent most of dinner getting up whenever Patricia noticed something missing.

At one point Daniel, my older brother, texted me.

You resting?

I took a photograph of my swollen feet beneath the kitchen table and sent it to him.

Obviously.

He replied with one word.

Emily.

I ignored him.

That was easier than admitting he had been right about Nathan for almost a year.

By eleven, most guests had left. By midnight, only Patricia, Melissa, Nathan, and I remained.

The first tightening in my abdomen came while I was rinsing a serving bowl.

I stopped.

Waited.

It passed.

I turned off the water.

“Nathan?”

He looked up.

“What?”

“I need to go home.”

Patricia made a small sound from the island.

“There are barely any dishes left.”

Another tightening came before I could answer. This one lasted longer.

I put both palms against the counter.

Nathan straightened.

“You okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?”

I looked at him.

“It means I don’t know. I’m thirty-four weeks pregnant and something feels wrong.”

Melissa folded her arms.

“Could it be those practice contractions?”

“Maybe.”

“Then sit down for five minutes.”

I did.

Not because Melissa told me to. Because my legs had started shaking.

Nathan brought me water. For one brief second, I thought the night was finally over.

Then Patricia looked at the kitchen.

“Let her rest for a minute. Nathan can help her finish afterward.”

I turned my head toward her.

“I’m not finishing afterward.”

The room went quiet.

Patricia put down her phone.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m going to the hospital.”

Nathan crouched beside me.

“Em, let’s not jump straight to that.”

“I’m not jumping anywhere. Call the hospital.”

“It’s after midnight.”

I stared at him.

“Hospitals are open after midnight, Nathan.”

Melissa looked away.

Patricia picked up her wineglass.

“Stop exaggerating.”

That was when I reached for my phone.

Not to call anyone.

Not yet.

I opened the voice recorder, pressed the red button, and placed the phone face down beside my purse.

I Asked Him Three Times

The next contraction bent me forward.

Nathan touched my shoulder.

“Okay. Okay. Breathe.”

I pushed his hand away.

“Take me to the hospital.”

“Let’s wait ten minutes.”

“No.”

“Emily, if this is nothing, you’re going to have an ambulance outside Mom’s house at twelve-thirty in the morning.”

For a moment I thought I had misunderstood him.

“What?”

He lowered his voice.

“The neighbors are still awake. Half of them were here tonight.”

Patricia stood.

“He means there’s no reason to create a scene if you’re simply uncomfortable.”

I looked from her to my husband.

“I’m asking you to drive me.”

Nathan rubbed both hands over his face.

“Can we wait until morning?”

My phone was still recording.

I could see the tiny red timer reflected faintly against the polished counter.

“Say that again.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“You want me to wait until morning?”

“I’m saying we should be reasonable.”

“Nathan.”

He looked at me.

“Please take me to the hospital.”