By the time my mother died, I was already nine months pregnant—and completely broken. She had been my safe place, the one person I trusted would always be there.
Two weeks after her funeral, my marriage collapsed. Proof, not rumors. Messages and photos of a future that didn’t include me or my baby. I felt empty, not angry—like my heart simply shut down.
The night my water broke, I was alone. I called a taxi. Halfway there, I panicked, apologizing through contractions as everything went wrong.
The driver pulled over, laid his jacket beneath me, and spoke gently.
“My wife couldn’t have children,” he said. “Let me help.”
He stayed calm when I couldn’t. He talked me through every breath. He didn’t leave until the nurses took over.
When I woke up later, there were flowers and a note: Congratulations.
Three years have passed.
He still comes by on weekends. Teaches my daughter to ride her bike. Cheers the loudest. Calls her sunshine.
He didn’t save me that night.
He stayed.
And sometimes, that’s what changes everything.