My husband told me to "figure it out" when my labor started, then drove to his mother's birthday dinner. Three days later, he opened my hospital door and lost all color when he saw the man holding our son.  The first contraction hit while I was standing in the kitchen. I grabbed the counter, and my glass fell out of my hand and shattered. My husband looked up from adjusting his jacket. Husband: “What happened?” Me: “I think the baby is coming.” He looked at the clock. Husband: “Coming where?” I stared at him. Me: “I’m in labor.” He picked up his car keys. Husband: “Tessa, please. Not tonight.” I actually thought I had misheard him. Me: “What do you mean, not tonight?” Husband: “My mom’s sixty-fifth birthday dinner is tonight. We’ve had this reservation for six months.” I was standing there, holding my stomach, trying to breathe through another contraction, while my husband explained why dinner was more important than the fact that I was about to give birth. Me: “Our baby doesn’t know about your reservation.” He gave me that look he always gave me whenever he thought I was being difficult. Husband: “Don’t start.” Me: “I’m not starting anything! My contractions are five minutes apart. I need you to take me to the hospital.” Husband: “Then call the hospital.” I looked at him. Me: “You want me to call the hospital?” Husband: “Tessa, I’m already late.” I couldn’t believe this man. Me: “I’m your wife. I’m carrying your child. I’m telling you I need to go to the hospital, and you’re worried about being late to dinner?” He opened the door. Husband: “Figure it out. I’m not ruining my mother’s birthday because you’re panicking early.” Another contraction hit so hard that I bent over the counter. When I straightened up, he was gone. I stood there staring at the empty doorway for a few seconds. Then I picked up my phone and called for a ride. By the time I reached St. Anne’s Medical Center in Columbus, my water had broken, and the contractions were coming less than three minutes apart. A nurse hurried toward me. Nurse: “Sweetheart, where’s your support person?” I looked at my phone. Me: “Apparently eating prime rib.” She paused. Nurse: “Your husband isn’t coming?” Me: “He’s at his mother’s birthday dinner.” She gave me a look, but she didn’t say what I could tell she was thinking. She just helped me into a wheelchair and got me admitted. A little later, I called my husband. He answered, and I could hear music and people laughing in the background. Me: “They’ve admitted me. You need to come now.” Husband: “Tessa, we just got our food.” I closed my eyes. Me: “I’m having a baby!” Husband: “And you’re in a hospital. You’re fine.” Then I heard his mother in the background. Diane: “Who is that? Is she still calling?” My husband covered the phone, but apparently not well enough. Husband: “It’s Tessa.” Diane: “Tell her first babies take forever. She’ll probably be there all night anyway.” I just sat there with the phone against my ear. His mother was discussing my labor like I was inconveniencing everyone by going into it. Me: “Can you please stop listening to your mother for five minutes and listen to your wife?” He went quiet. Then he said something that made me stop asking him to come. Husband: “Stop making everything a crisis. I’ll come after dinner.” Me: “Don’t hang up on me.” He hung up. I stared at my phone. Then I whispered, “Okay. I understand.” And for the first time that night, I stopped calling him.