Then, the labor began.

It started as a dull ache in my lower back, a rhythmic tightening that quickly sharpened into jagged peaks of pain. I called Mark, my hands trembling so hard I nearly dropped the phone.

“I can’t talk,” he answered, his voice clipped. “I’m in the middle of the boardroom.”

“Mark, it’s time. The contractions are five minutes apart.”

There was a pause. A sigh that sounded almost like annoyance. “Okay. Look, the meeting is running long. Call a taxi. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry.

I sent Emma to school with a neighbor and took the taxi alone, clutching the door handle through every wave of agony. By the time I was settled in the delivery room, Emma had been dropped off by the school principal, rushing to my side.