Then the door opened.
At first, I believed the pain had made me hallucinate.
Dr. Evan Mercer stood in the doorway wearing blue scrubs, his identification badge clipped to his chest and exhaustion visible beneath his eyes.
My ex-husband did not move.
Neither did I.
Dana looked from him to me and muttered that the universe had a cruel sense of humor.
A nurse behind Evan asked whether he was all right.
“No,” he said.
For once, we agreed completely.
Another contraction tore through my back and abdomen.
The sound that escaped me pulled Evan out of his shock.
His gaze snapped toward the monitor.
Then he looked at my chart.
The husband disappeared from his posture, and the physician took over.
He asked for my vital signs, the timing of the contractions, and the number of times the baby’s heart rate had dropped.
Rachel answered quickly.
Evan stepped closer to the bed and read the gestational age.
