Paula stood outside wearing sweatpants, sneakers, and a winter coat thrown over her pajamas. She had already put towels across the passenger seat and packed water, phone chargers, and the hospital bag checklist I had texted her. Kevin stared at her, then at me. “You’re seriously taking the neighbor instead of your husband?” he asked. I reminded him of what he had said three nights earlier: apparently, I didn’t need him for everything. “I don’t need someone who treats supporting me like an inconvenience,” I said. “Tonight I need someone I know will actually show up.” Paula never smiled or gloated. She simply picked up my bag and asked whether my contractions were getting closer together.
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