“Just call a taxi, Valeria. I’m not missing a meeting because you decided to go into labor in the middle of the night.”Those were the last words my husband said before rolling over and pulling the sheet over his face.It was 2:14 a.m. in our house in Zapopan. I stood in the doorway, legs shaking, my nightgown soaked, another contraction hitting so hard I had to bite my lip to stay quiet. Outside, the gated neighborhood slept peacefully—perfect homes, security cameras, manicured lawns—like nothing bad could ever happen there.“Oscar… my water broke,” I whispered, trying not to panic. “The baby is coming.”He barely opened his eyes. No urgency. No concern. He didn’t even sit up.You’re overreacting, Valeria. The doctor said it could take hours.”I can’t drive like this.”

He sighed, annoyed.“Then use an app. That’s what taxis are for. I have a presentation tomorrow. I need rest.”Another contraction bent me in half.“Oscar, please…”He silenced his phone and muttered, “Don’t start with the drama.”Then he closed his eyes again.I stood there waiting—hoping he’d change his mind, remember this was his child too. But nothing happened. Just the sound of his steady breathing while I struggled to stay upright.In the living room, shaking, I tried to book a ride. The first driver canceled. The second didn’t move. The third was unavailable. I called my mother—she lived hours away. I called Oscar again. His phone was off.That’s when I realized this wasn’t an accident.It was a choice.I dressed as best I could, grabbed my hospital bag, my ID, the small blue blanket I’d bought at the market, and my keys. One hand against the wall, the other on my belly, I made it to the garage.Driving alone down the empty avenue, I whispered prayers between contractions. Every red light felt cruel. Every wave of pain reminded me: I was alone because the man who promised to protect me chose to sleep.