The green light of the heart monitor cast a dull shadow across Aaron’s face every four seconds, but he was not looking at the screen. He was looking at his watch again.
“The foreman says the concrete pour at the county road site is delayed,” he said, his voice coming in rapid, clipped sentences. “They need my signature on the change order by noon.”
I breathed out slowly, focusing on the dark square of the window where the Oakhaven streets were still black and empty. A contraction pulled at my lower back, tight and heavy, before letting go.
“They can wait,” I said.
He did not sit down. He continued to pace the narrow strip of linoleum between my bed and the small vinyl armchair, his thumb constantly rotating his gold wedding ring around his finger.
“My father never missed a morning on a job site, even when my brother was born,” he said.
“You do not have a brother, Aaron,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper as he stopped pacing, his shoulders tightening under his gray flannel shirt.
“I meant his own brothers,” Aaron said quickly. “He was always there. He said a man who isn’t on site when the foundation is poured is just letting other people build his life for him.”
He stopped by the window, his phone buzzing twice against his palm. He slid it into his pocket without reading the screen, though his fingers stayed clamped around the plastic case.
“Your father spent forty years in Oakhaven building houses that are still standing,” I said. “He would understand you being here.”
“He wouldn’t,” Aaron said. “He expected things to be done a certain way. No excuses.”
A sharp contraction rose, stronger than the last one, making me grip the cold metal rail of the hospital bed. I closed my eyes and counted to ten, waiting for the peak to pass. My physical exhaustion was a heavy weight, the labor starting yesterday afternoon and dragging through the night until my body felt bruised and hollow.
“Are you holding your breath?” Aaron asked, stepping closer but not touching my hand.
“I am breathing,” I said, my voice low.
