Chapter 4 - The Midnight Dash to Freedom
The cold night air hit my face like a splash of ice water as I stepped out onto my parents’ driveway. Another powerful contraction gripped my lower abdomen, forcing me to double over against the hood of my sedan. I breathed through it, eyes squeezed shut, drawing in air the way Sunny had taught me—longer exhales than inhales.
I was completely, utterly alone. And for the first time all evening, that realization didn't feel like a tragedy. It felt like absolute freedom.
I unlocked my car, slid into the driver’s seat, and dialed Yara’s number. She answered on the first ring, but her voice was strained and breathless.
“Em? Are you okay? I’m right in the middle of an active labor with my other client, I can’t leave her right now!” Yara said, panic bleeding through her words.
“I know, Yari,” I said, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. “I’m in labor. My parents just laughed me out of their house.”
“Oh, God. Text Sunny right now. Send her your location!”
“I will. Go take care of your client. We’ve got this.”
I hung up and immediately messaged Sunny. Water broke/contractions 8 mins apart. Leaving Midlothian now.
Sunny’s reply came back instantly like a lightning bolt: Deck B. I’m waiting at the front doors with a wheelchair. Breathe out longer than you breathe in, Mama. Let's go have a baby.
As I drove across the James River bridge, the Richmond skyline glittering like a cluster of diamonds against the midnight sky, my phone lit up the dark dashboard with a text message notification.
It was Eleanor.
Mom: Are you actually at the hospital? Stop being dramatic. Call us when it’s real.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the reply button. Then, with a cold, steady sense of closure, I turned my phone on silent, dropped it into the passenger seat footwell, and pressed my foot down on the accelerator.
Twenty-eight minutes after leaving my parents’ driveway, I pulled into Deck B of the hospital.
Sunny was standing right where she promised she’d be, leaning against the handles of a sterile blue wheelchair, wearing her scrubs like battle armor. As soon as I stepped out of the car, she rushed over, grabbed my arm, and hoisted me into the chair with practiced efficiency.
“You made great time,” Sunny said, pushing me through the sliding glass automatic doors at a brisk jog. “Any family here to sign you in?”
I looked up at Sunny, the fluorescent lights reflecting in her kind, fierce eyes. “You are my family, Sunny.”
Sunny grinned, her jaw tightening with fierce maternal loyalty. “Damn right I am.”
By ten o’clock that night, Yara had finished her other birth, discharged herself from client duty, and rushed straight to my hospital room carrying a bag of takeout and a look of pure warrior pride. Sunny stayed past her shift change, refusing to leave my side through the grueling, beautiful hours of transition.
At 5:48 a.m. on a crisp Monday morning, my daughter entered the world—crying loudly, fighting the blanket wrap, and weighing a healthy seven pounds of absolute perfection.
Dr. Ravenel smiled warmly, gently placing the slippery, warm bundle of life directly against my bare chest. “She’s completely healthy. Look at her, Imagin.”
I looked down at the tiny, wrinkled face scrunching up in indignation. My heart expanded so violently it felt like my ribs might crack.
“Matilda,” I whispered, brushing a stray dark curl from her forehead.
Sunny picked up a dry-erase marker and walked over to the large white board on the hospital wall. “Tilly what, Mama?”
I looked down at the hospital identification bracelet wrapped securely around my wrist, bearing my own name—Torrance.
“Matilda Torrance,” I said clearly.
Sunny wrote my daughter’s name in bold, beautiful letters across the board.
Just then, my phone—which I had finally flipped off silent—buzzed violently against the bedside table. A flurry of notifications popped up. Four missed calls from Raquel. And a fresh text message waiting at the top of the screen.
Raquel: Mom says, “Are you actually at the hospital? Answer your phone, Imagin.”
Yara leaned over my shoulder, reading the screen with a look of utter disgust. “Do you want me to text them back and tell them off?”
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I looked down at little Matilda sleeping soundly on my chest, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect, peaceful rhythm. I gently stroked her cheek.
“No, Yari,” I said, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across my face. “Not today.”
