My husband left me in the car while I was in labor so he could go fishing with his father, then two hours later he called me crying, and by then the choice he made had already written the rest of my life.

Then around hour six, everything stopped being beautiful.

Lily May’s heart rate dropped during a contraction. Not a little—a lot. The monitors started beeping. Three nurses rushed into the room so fast I thought the floor might collapse. The doctor appeared out of nowhere, talking about fetal distress and emergency interventions and the possibility of an emergency C-section.

I was terrified—absolutely 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:

20 minutes. 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.

Then I took a screenshot. I didn’t even know why at the time. Instinct, maybe—some part of me already building a case I didn’t yet understand I would need.

The bass are really biting.

My daughter’s heart rate was dropping, doctors were preparing for emergency surgery, and my husband was worried about fish.

I learned something about myself in that moment. I learned I could feel heartbroken and furious at the exact same time. I also learned I could shove both of those feelings down and focus on what mattered.

Getting my baby out safely.

Lily May stabilized. No surgery needed. And at 5:47 that evening, after eleven hours of labor, she came into the world screaming.

Seven pounds, four ounces.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I cried when they put her on my chest—cried from relief, from joy, from exhaustion, and from the strange loneliness of experiencing the most important moment of my life without my partner there to share it.

I named her Lily May Dickerson.

My last name.

Not his.

Some decisions make themselves.

Janelle arrived at 6:30, exactly forty-five minutes after Lily was born. She burst through the door, looking like she’d driven a hundred miles an hour the whole way—because she probably had. She didn’t say anything at first. She just hugged me, then looked at Lily May, then hugged me again.

When she finally spoke, all she said was, “Where is he?”

I shook my head.

She understood.

She held my daughter while I finally let myself rest. And for the first time all day, the room felt like it had love in it.

Brent showed up at 8:52 p.m. I know the exact time because I was watching the clock, wondering if he’d make it before midnight. He walked in sunburned and smiling, smelling like lake water, fish guts, and Coors Light.

He didn’t bring flowers.

He brought a teddy bear from the gas station.

I know it was from the gas station because the price tag was still attached: $7.99.

I did the math later. That’s about sixty-eight cents per hour he’d been gone.

My daughter’s first gift from her father valued her at less than a dollar an hour.

Quite the investment.

“Sorry, babe,” he said. “The fish were really biting, and Dad needed help hauling in the cooler. But look—she’s beautiful. And you did great.”