Nine months. That's how long it takes to grow a human being, destroy a marriage, and completely lose your damn mind. By the time Melissa hit her third trimester, our house had turned into some kind of surreal performance-art piece about dysfunction. She'd waddle around like a penguin wearing yoga pants, complaining about everything from her swollen ankles to the baby's habit of using her bladder as a soccer ball.
Meanwhile, I perfected the art of being physically present but emotionally checked out. The whole situation was like watching a car accident in slow motion. You know it's going to end badly, but you can't look away because the human brain is wired for disaster porn. Every day brought some new drama, some fresh reminder that my wife was carrying another man's genetic legacy while I counted down the days until I could legally extract myself from this nightmare.
The birth itself happened on a Tuesday in March because apparently even babies don't have the courtesy to arrive on convenient days. I was at work, deep in the thrilling world of quarterly tax filings, when my phone started buzzing like an angry hornet. The first call was from Melissa, which I let go to voicemail because I'd learned that answering her calls only led to requests for favors I had no intention of granting. The second call was also from Melissa.
Then the third, fourth, and fifth. Finally, I picked up, figuring maybe the house was on fire or one of our actual kids needed something. "Grant," she gasped, and I could hear that particular brand of panic that meant things were happening fast. "It's time."
"The baby's coming." For a split second, just one stupid reflexive second, my brain went into husband mode. The same mode that had kicked in when she'd gone into labor with Jake, Emma, and Sophie. The mode where you drop everything, grab the hospital bag, and drive like a maniac while trying to remember everything from those childbirth classes you'd slept through.
But then reality crashed back in like a bucket of ice water. This wasn't my baby. This wasn't my emergency. This was Charles and Vivien's big moment, the culmination of their expensive fertility journey.
The answer to all their rich-people prayers. "Okay," I said, my voice as flat as roadkill. "So call Charles." "I did," she sobbed.
And now I could hear the real fear creeping in. "He's in a meeting. His secretary said she'd try to reach him, but—" "Then call Vivien." "She's at some spa in Napa. Grant, please, I need—"
I hung up. Just pressed the little red button and went back to my tax forms like nothing had happened. Because what was I supposed to do? Drop everything and rush to the hospital to watch my wife give birth to her boss's baby?