His Regret Came Too Late, I Don't Want It Anymore

"Blood pressure 196 over 128! Patient's vision is blurring, start the magnesium sulfate drip! Ms. Mitchell, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand!"

The ambulance siren screamed, the overhead lights flashing on and off, the heart monitor beeping without pause.

I lay curled on the freezing stretcher, drenched in cold sweat, teeth chattering, my lower abdomen bearing down with contractions that sent tearing pain crawling up my spine.

"I... can hear you."

It took everything I had to force out those few words.

"Severe preeclampsia with signs of placental abruption. She could seize or hemorrhage at any moment!"

The doctor pushed the blood pressure medication, his voice tight with urgency. "The babies are only twenty-eight weeks and four days. Severe fetal distress. We need an emergency C-section right now. The babies will go straight to the NICU afterward. Where is her family? Who's going to sign the consent forms?"

"There's no family."

The doctor's eyes went red. "Her husband? There are three lives on the line. Someone has to sign!"

The phone in my sweat-slick palm buzzed. Adrian's name flashed across the screen.

It took me two tries to answer. Before anyone spoke, the sounds of clinking glasses, raucous laughter, and jazz music poured through the speaker.

"Serena, how long are you going to keep this up?"

Adrian's voice was sharp with impatience. "You locked the bedroom door? Seriously? Vivi spent over ten hours on a plane, and she barely has an appetite. Everyone's waiting for you to make that sweet pudding she likes. She only likes the way you make it, and you pick now to throw a tantrum and ruin the evening?"

My belly clenched violently. Pain blacked out my vision, and cold sweat mixed with tears streamed into my mouth.

"Adrian... I'm dying..."

"Not this again."

He scoffed, "I saw that critical condition notice this morning. You Googled a few medical terms to scare me. Very creative.

"You've always been strong as a horse. It's just a pregnancy. Every woman goes through it."

He paused, his voice turning even colder. "Don't try to hold me hostage with some one-in-a-million complication. Go downstairs and make the dessert. I already had someone send over that stretch mark oil. Quit while you're ahead."

The ambulance swerved hard. The stretcher lurched, and my head slammed against the wall of the cabin.

"Adrian... I'm in an ambulance. They're about to cut me open..."

The line went quiet for two seconds.

Derek's smug laughter cut through. "Adrian, don't fall for it. She's just jealous that Vivian's back, so she's pulling a sympathy stunt!

"She could haul two bags of flour up five flights of stairs by herself back in high school. Built like a pack animal. As if she'd ever actually keel over."

"Serena, did you hear that?"

Adrian lowered his voice. "Even your own brother sees right through you. Come downstairs now, and I'll pretend none of this happened. It's Vivi's first day back. I don't want her feeling uncomfortable."

My knuckles whitened around the phone, then my grip slowly loosened.

During the worst of my morning sickness in the first trimester, I had vomited until my esophagus was raw and my bile was streaked with blood. Back then, Adrian's eyes would redden with worry. At two in the morning, he would get up to make me oatmeal, simmering it again and again until it was soft and smooth. He strained out every tough stem and crumb.

Later, my legs swelled so badly they wouldn't fit into men's slippers, and I still had to inject blood thinners into my belly twice a day, leaving a constellation of bruises around the needle marks.

He only stood in the doorway, frowning as he said, "Country girls are tough. Grit your teeth and it'll pass. Stop being so dramatic."

The tenderness hadn't disappeared. It had simply been taken from me and given to someone else.

"Serena? Say something, stop playing dead!"

The fire that had burned in my chest for ten years slowly went out.

"Adrian."

"What?"

"Have fun tonight."

I hung up and powered off the phone, right in front of the doctor.

The anesthesiologist held my trembling wrist. "Don't think about that now, Ms. Mitchell. Save your strength. You need to pull through this for your babies."

The operating room doors swung open. Surgical lights bleached everything white. Footsteps, the clatter of instruments, and the constant callout of vital signs all flooded into my ears.

"Diastolic over 130, prepare for general anesthesia and intubation!"

"Neonatal resuscitation team, stand by!"

The doctor handed me the critical condition notice and the surgical consent form. "Both babies are extremely low birth weight with immature lungs. You're also at risk for massive hemorrhage and brain herniation. Are you sure you don't need a family member to co-sign?"

I took the pen and wrote my own name in the family signature line:

Serena Mitchell.

The anesthesia entered my veins. Just before consciousness slipped away, my phone lit up.

Adrian had posted a photo collage on Facebook.

In the center photo, he held up a crystal champagne flute, gazing tenderly at Vivian beside him. Behind them stood the twin crib I had assembled the night before, hunched over my aching belly until three in the morning.

The caption read: "Old friends reunited. Ten years feels like a dream. Tonight, we drink till we drop."

A single tear finally slid from the corner of my eye.

Inside me, the babies who had been kicking so fiercely went terrifyingly still.