The first contraction felt like a warning. The second didn’t. By the third, I could hardly stand. I gripped the edge of the counter, whispering, “It’s time,” and watched my husband reach for the keys like the man I married—the one who said he’d be ready at a moment’s notice when our twins decided to meet the world. We made it as far as the door. “Where are you trying to go?” his mother called from the hallway, stepping neatly between me and the garage. Behind her, his sister twirled a brand-new

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The text came in while we were on I-71, two turns from my sister’s subdivision. Change of plans. Close family and Brooklyn’s friends only. I read it twice, then looked up at the split-level at the end of the cul-de-sac. No balloons tied to the mailbox. No cars lining the curb. No music through the windows. Just a quiet Ohio street on a Saturday, flags fluttering on porch posts and a kid on a scooter zig-zagging past. “Maybe we’re early?” my daughter asked, her arms full of wrapped presents. Madi