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“I couldn’t do it,” I whisper after I end the call. I brush some tears away. “I couldn’t blow up her world when she’s worried about him. I couldn’t make myself say the words.”

“I understand,” Tristan says. “It’s a lot to say. We can take our time. There’s no need to rush into anything.”

I nod, not really feeling any better about any of this as he throws a bunch of clichés at me.

I’m worried about Logan, and it’s like Tristan can sense that as he offers words to make me feel better.

“You helped. They might have waited if you hadn’t called tonight,” he says.

I nod.

Still, Miranda never asked why I was calling. I guess I started the conversation by saying I just wanted to check on Logan, and I did. I found out more, and I convinced her to take him into Lakeshore sooner rather than later.

And then I couldn’t say the words.

I wasn’t ready. I was scared.

It felt like something that should be said in person, not over a speaker phone at seven o’clock at night.

We wash the dinner dishes, and then we settle in for the next episode of Outlander at Tristan’s suggestion to try to take our mind off things. To change the subject, so to speak.

But it doesn’t help take my mind off anything.

It doesn’t really seem like Tristan’s paying any attention to the screen, either.

I can’t stop thinking about Miranda’s words. Logan has been feeling tired lately.

From what I know, hemolytic anemia can become aplastic anemia. It’s not my specialty, but my mind is wandering and so my fingers are, too, as I do a little research on my phone.

What if it’s aplastic anemia? What if it’s bad?

What if he needs bone marrow?

Finding a bone marrow match can be tricky, but parents are automatic half-matches to their biological children, so if he did need a transfusion, we could potentially help him.

The timing would be awfully coincidental, but I’m a big believer that everything happens for a reason. Maybe Savannah really did do something good even though the way she did it was awful. But however she came by the information, we’re in a position to help now if our little boy needs it.

I start to cry, and Tristan glances over at me as he hears me sniffle. He shuts off the television and moves a little closer to me. “Babe. What’s wrong?”

“I just can’t believe Logan Wesley is our little boy,” I manage shakily through the tears that are quickly escalating into sobs. “I loved that boy. I always felt like he was special. I thought about him and worried about him but I knew he was in good hands with his parents and now…now…now—how could I ever rip him away from them?”

“Hey,” he says softly, soothingly. “We’re not ripping him away.”

“But I want to be his mom. I want to take care of him. I want to be there for him,” I sob.

He moves in beside me and pulls me into him so my head is resting on his chest. He rubs my back, and I hear a sniffle from him, too.

This is hard.

Really hard.

Baby girl kicks, and it’s almost like she’s saying it’s okay, Mama. I’ll be here soon to give you a hug, too .

I can’t wait for that hug.

My tears finally calm, but I’m left with a wicked bad headache. I stand to head into the kitchen to take some Tylenol, and that’s when it happens.

A splash of water down my legs, and then it sort of feels as if I’m going to the bathroom except…I’m not. “Oh my God,” I yell. “I think my water just broke!”

Tristan’s eyes widen as he looks from the puddle beneath me up to my face and back again, and then he springs into action.

“Are you having contractions?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

He nods then runs to the kitchen and rushes back with two towels. He hands one to me, which I use in some attempt to dry my legs, and he mops the floor with the other.

“Do we go to the hospital?” he asks.

I nod. “I think so, but if contractions haven’t started yet, I’m not really sure.” And then the pain hits me. “Oh God!” I yell as what feels like the worst cramp of my life debilitates me for a second. But then I’m okay again. “I think they’re starting.”

“Do you have a bag packed?” he asks.

I shake my head, eyes wide as I perch on our brand new couch even though I’m soaking wet still. We can have it cleaned. I need to freaking sit. “I thought I had more time. Another week or two, at least.”

“Can you walk up the stairs?” he asks.

“Yes, I think I can. No, wait. No.” I shake my head. “Nope, I can’t. Wait! I didn’t unpack my overnight bag when we left my mom’s. My toothbrush and essentials are in there. I just need some extra clothes.”

“Do we have a birth plan?” he asks, and he’s way too calm for the excessive amount of uncalm I happen to be at the moment.

“A birth plan?” I screech as if I’ve never heard of that before. “Hell no, I don’t have a freaking birth plan! I know I’m supposed to, but I’ve been a little busy getting left at the altar and sulking! And I thought I had more time! I really thought I had more time!”

“It’s okay, Tess. It’s fine. We’ve got this,” he says calmly. “You sit. I’ll get your bag. What do you need?”

“An outfit to go home in. Non-maternity clothes. Underwear—one of my nursing bras and my maternity underwear. A t-shirt and yoga pants. And a dry outfit to change into before we go. I think I have one in my duffel bag, so just bring that back down. Oh! And the baby’s coming home outfit,” I say.

“The baby’s coming home outfit?” he repeats.

I roll my eyes in exasperation. “Yes! The little outfit on the hanger on her dresser knob. It’s washed and ready for her so we can take her home in it.” He nods as he starts to walk away, and I continue barking orders behind him. “And grab my phone charger. And my good camera!”

I dial my mother as he races upstairs, and she picks up right away. “My water just broke!” I wail into the phone when she answers. I’m certain I just interrupted her game shows, but I think she’ll understand.

“Oh, honey, how exciting! How are you feeling?”

“Terrified,” I admit. “Oh Jeez!” I screech as another one of those cramps hits me.

“You’ve got this, my sweet Tessi-cat. Was that a contraction?”

“I think so,” I say. “The last one was a couple minutes ago.”

“Be safe, honey. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

I can hear Tristan talking upstairs as he gathers everything we need, and I assume he’s calling his parents, too.

I draw in a deep breath. “It’s okay, Mom. I just wanted to let you know she’s on her way. You try to get some rest since we have no idea how long labor will take, and you can come by once she’s here, okay?” I hear Tristan as he comes toward the top of the staircase. “I better go. Love you!”

He leaps down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time, and he hands me an outfit—my favorite black maternity shorts and a t-shirt that says June Baby .

That’s right.

My June baby is on her way.