Saturday night at 7 p.m., Richard, a friend, called me to attend his girlfriend’s birthday party with him. My wife was dozing off on the couch when I got ready to leave. I said I was going out, and she nodded without lifting her head.

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The birthday party was so good we didn’t want to go home. At around 10:16 p.m., I looked at my phone and saw 27 missed calls from my wife. My heart skipped several beats. I called back and no one answered. I called again and again until someone picked up. It was her younger sister. She said, “She was in labour, so they rushed her here.”

I started running around looking for a car to get home. I asked if everything was right with her, and she said she couldn’t tell because she had also arrived at the hospital not long ago. I asked her not to cut the call but to go around and ask what was going on. No matter what, my wife wouldn’t call me that many times. I knew something was wrong.

I was on the phone when her younger sister asked the nurse if everything was fine. The nurse said she was stable. I was screaming on the phone, “What do you mean she’s stable? Ask her.” She gave the phone to the nurse, and I started asking my questions. She kept saying my wife was stable because she got to the facility while bleeding profusely.

When I got to the hospital and rushed to see her, all they said was, “Be patient. She’s stable.”

Finally, they walked me inside and I saw my wife with an oxygen mask. She had delivered and lost the baby. At that moment, I didn’t care about the baby. “Is she going to be well again?” I asked. The doctor said, “Yeah, she’s stable.”

That word again. The same fear, the same confusion, and the same regret engulfed me. “Why did I attend a party when I knew my wife’s due date was nigh? Why didn’t I check my phone until hours later?”

My heart was beating so fast I thought I wasn’t going to make it to the next day.

A week ago, my wife was discharged and we came home together. She hasn’t said a word to me. She looks at me and cries. Not a loud cry, but the quiet kind where all you see are tears streaming down her face. I’m not pushing her to talk. I’m not asking any questions. I sit and don’t leave her side, because the last time I did, we lost a baby and a piece of herself—and mine.

I Left Him Because He Didn’t Help In The Kitchen

I’m yet to hear what happened from her own mouth. I’m yet to know the exact reason behind her tears. Is it the death of the baby? Is it because I was not there when she needed me the most? Or is it both?

This is the calm before the storm. I pray we survive it.

—Peter

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