I filled out my own insurance forms between contractions. I work in medical billing—I process insurance claims for a living. So there I was, in active labor, writing down authorization codes and policy numbers because I knew exactly which ones they’d need. If that isn’t the most ridiculous irony of my life, I don’t know what is.

You know what the worst part was? Even then, even sitting in that hospital bed with monitors strapped to my belly and no husband in sight, I checked my phone. Seventeen texts to Brent, all marked as read. He had seen them. Every single one. He just hadn’t responded. He was too busy watching his fishing line.

Eleven hours. That’s how long it took to bring my daughter into the world. Eleven hours of contractions, breathing exercises, and nurses telling me I was doing great while I contemplated every life choice that had led me to this moment.

Then around hour six, everything stopped being beautiful. Lily May’s heart rate dropped during a contraction—not a little, a lot. Monitors started beeping. Three nurses rushed into the room. The doctor appeared, talking about fetal distress and emergency interventions and possible cesarean section.

I was terrified. Not for me—for my baby. For this little person I hadn’t even met yet but already loved more than anything.I grabbed my phone and texted Brent: Baby in distress. Might need emergency surgery. Please come.Twenty minutes later, he responded: I’m sure the docs have it handled. Dad says the bass are really biting today. Keep me posted.I read that text three times. I screenshot it. I didn’t know why at the time—instinct maybe. Some part of me already building a case I didn’t know I’d need.