At Christmas dinner, my water broke in the middle of the living room.

I clung to the arm of the sofa in my parents’ living room, nails digging into the fabric, sweat running down my back. My phone was on 3% battery, my hospital bag by the door. All I needed was a ride.

My mother sat in her recliner, arms crossed, not moving.

“Stop being dramatic,” she snapped over the sound of my breathing. “Women used to handle this alone. You’re only thirty-seven weeks. It’s probably false labor.”

I gritted my teeth as another contraction ripped through me.

“This isn’t false,” I gasped. “My water broke an hour ago.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve always been overly sensitive, Anna.”

I turned to my father, who was on the other end of the couch, the newspaper spread open like a shield. I reached for him.

“Dad, please,” I begged. “Can you just drive me? I’m scared.”

He didn’t even look up.

“You heard your mother,” he muttered. “If it’s real, we’ll go later. I’m not chasing you back and forth to the hospital for nothing.”