The peace shattered a week before her scheduled C-section.
It began as a dull ache in her lower back, but Lyra, accustomed to the constant discomforts of her final month, tried to ignore it. Then came the first contraction. It was sharp, stealing her breath and hardening her entire abdomen into a painful knot.
She timed it. Seven minutes later, another one seized her, more intense than the last.
Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at the edges of her calm.
Zara was in the kitchen, packing a lunch for her next shift. She saw Lyra’s face and was at her side in an instant, her fingers pressing gently against Lyra’s stomach. When the third contraction hit, Zara’s expression shifted. The friend vanished, replaced entirely by the doctor.
“That’s it,” she said, her voice clipped and professional. “Grab your bag. We’re going to St. Jude’s. Now.”
The carefully controlled world they had built dissolved into a blur of frantic motion. The car ride was a torment of rhythmic, escalating pain. At the hospital, the bright lights and antiseptic smell felt like an assault.
Tests confirmed their fears. Lyra was in premature labor.
But there was something worse.
“There’s evidence of a placental abruption,” the attending physician told them, his face grim. “It’s minor for now, but given your history…” He didn’t need to finish.
The abruption, combined with her rare blood type, turned a serious situation into a critical one. It put both her and the baby at extreme risk of hemorrhage. An emergency C-section was no longer a possibility; it was a necessity. And if things went wrong, they would need a directed blood donation, immediately. There was no time to wait for the general supply.
Lyra’s head swam with a storm of disbelief and terror.
Zara stood beside her bed, holding her hand. Her face was pale. “Lyra, listen to me. Hospital protocol is absolute on this. In a critical situation involving a birth, we are mandated to inform the other biological parent. Especially when a directed donation might be required.”
“No,” Lyra whispered, the word a raw plea. “Zara, you can’t.”
“I have to,” Zara said, her voice tight with a pain that was not just medical. “This isn’t about you and him anymore. This is about the baby. This is my medical duty. I have no choice.”
Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, a tear tracing a hot path down her temple. She had built a fortress around her new life, a wall to keep him out. Now, a medical crisis was about to breach it.
Over Lyra’s choked protests, Zara stepped out into the hallway. She pulled out her phone, found the contact she had saved months ago under a sterile, impersonal label, and made the unwanted call.
She didn’t ask for his presence. She didn’t appeal to his emotions.
She simply stated the facts. There was a medical emergency. His child’s life was at risk.
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