You shifted your weight, bouncing your six-year-old daughter on your hip as she clung to you, overwhelmed and teary. She hated when things changed — hated the noise, hated the rush of the morning — and today was worse than usual.

You felt tired, more than tired, but you pushed through, whispering calming words against her hair as you moved to grab her jacket from the counter.

And then, mid-step, it happened — a blinding cramp ripped through your belly, doubling you over slightly. You sucked in a breath, clenching your jaw, trying not to alarm her. But the pain didn’t pass.

A second later, you felt it: a warm gush down your legs, pooling on the tile below you.

Your heart skipped wildly.

No, no, no — it was too early. You were only 23 weeks.

Panic clawed up your throat. Still holding your daughter tightly against your side, you stumbled toward the kitchen counter where your phone sat. You fumbled it open with trembling hands, thumbing through contacts until you found the one you needed — Addison Montgomery.

You hit call.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

"Come on, Addie, come on," you whispered, barely able to breathe.

Finally, her voice picked up, bright and casual: "Hey, what's going on?"

You couldn't hold it back — the words tumbled out, cracked and scared: "Addie, I— I think my water just broke. I'm home. I don't know what to do—"

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end.

"Where's Mark?" she asked immediately, voice sharper now.

"Gone," you choked out. "I'm alone. I can't— I can't drive, Addie—"

"I’m coming. Right now," she said, no hesitation. "Stay put. I'm coming."

The line clicked off, and you stood there in your kitchen, barefoot and soaked