The Unanswered Call

Part I: The Coldest Tiles

The tiles of the master bathroom were imported Italian marble, cold enough to seep through my skin and chill the very marrow of my bones. But that cold was nothing compared to the fire tearing through my abdomen.

I gripped the porcelain edge of the bathtub, my knuckles white, my breath coming in jagged, terrified gasps. Water—clear and undeniable—pooled beneath me, mixing with the tears I hadn’t realized I was crying.

My water had broken. Three weeks early.

I reached for my phone with a trembling hand. It slid across the wet floor, but I managed to grab it. I dialed the only number that mattered.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Hello?”

The voice was casual. Too casual. In the background, I could hear the rhythmic crashing of waves and the clinking of silverware. Cabo San Lucas. A “business trip,” he had called it. But I knew. I had seen the text messages from “Jessica – Yoga” pop up on his iPad two days ago.

“Mark,” I choked out, a contraction seizing me so hard I saw stars. “Mark, it’s happening. The baby… I’m in labor.”

There was a pause. I heard a woman’s giggle in the background, quickly stifled.

“Now?” Mark sighed, the sound of a man inconvenienced by a telemarketer. “Sarah, you’re not due for weeks. Are you sure you’re not just having Braxton Hicks again?”

“I am on the floor,” I screamed, the pain stripping away my dignity. “My water broke! I’m alone!”

“Okay, okay, calm down,” he said, his voice dropping to a hush, presumably so Jessica wouldn’t hear his domestic troubles. “Look, I can’t exactly fly back right this second, can I? I’m in a meeting.”

“A meeting at a beach bar?” I hissed.

“Don’t start this now,” he snapped. Then, his tone shifted to that condescending smoothness that used to charm me. “Honey, you’re strong. You’ve got this. Call an Uber. You can drive yourself to the hospital, can’t you? It’s only twenty minutes away.”

“You want me to drive myself?” I whispered, disbelief numbing the pain for a split second.

“I have to go, Sarah. The investors are waving me over. Text me when he’s born. Love you.”

Click.

He hung up.

I stared at the phone. The silence of the empty house crashed down on me, heavier than the roof itself. My husband, the man who had vowed to cherish me in sickness and in health, was drinking margaritas with his mistress while I lay in a puddle of amniotic fluid.

Another contraction hit, this one like a freight train. I screamed, a primal sound that echoed off the marble walls.

I couldn’t drive. I could barely stand.

I crawled. I dragged myself out of the bathroom, down the hallway, leaving a trail of wetness on the hardwood. I made it to the front door and unlocked it.

I dialed 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Labor,” I gasped. “Alone. Can’t move. Please.”

Part II: The Stranger’s Hand

The ride in the ambulance was a blur of lights and sirens. But the hospital was where reality sharpened.

I was wheeled into Labor and Delivery. Nurses swarmed me. They asked questions I struggled to answer. Where is the father? Is he on his way?

“He’s not coming,” I said, my voice dead. “He’s not coming.”

The labor was brutal. The baby was breech. The doctors’ faces grew serious.

“We need to do an emergency C-section,” Dr. Evans said, gripping my shoulder. “Sarah, we need consent. Is there anyone we can call?”

“No,” I said. “Just save him. Save my baby.”

I was wheeled into the operating room. The bright lights burned my eyes. I felt the cold antiseptic on my belly. I was terrified. I was completely, utterly alone.

But then, an older nurse named Martha took my hand. Her skin was rough, her grip firm.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” she whispered behind her mask. “You aren’t alone. I’m right here.”

I squeezed her hand as the anesthesia took hold. I focused on her eyes—kind, wrinkled, human eyes. They were the only anchor I had in the storm.

I woke up in the recovery room. The pain was duller now, a throbbing ache behind the morphine.

“He’s beautiful,” a soft voice said.

Martha was there, holding a bundle wrapped in a striped blanket. She lowered him into my arms.

My son. Leo.

He was tiny, red-faced, and screaming. But the moment he touched my chest, he quieted. He opened his eyes—dark, serious eyes that looked nothing like Mark’s.

I cried. I cried for the joy of him, and I cried for the death of the life I thought I had.

I looked at the clock on the wall. It had been three hours since I called Mark.

My phone, placed on the bedside table by the nurses, began to buzz.

I looked at the screen.

Hubby.

I let it ring.

It stopped. Then it rang again immediately.

Then a text. Answer the phone, Sarah!

Then another. WHERE ARE YOU?

Then another call.

I picked up the phone. I didn’t slide the green button. I just stared at his smiling face on the contact photo—a photo taken on our honeymoon, a lie captured in pixels.

I remembered his voice from three hours ago. “You can drive yourself.”

He sounded annoyed then. Now? Even through the vibration of the phone, I could feel a frantic energy.

Why? Was he feeling guilty? Did he decide to come home?

“Ma’am?” A young police officer knocked on the open door frame. He looked uncomfortable. “Mrs. Sarah Vance?”

I lowered the buzzing phone. “Yes?”

“I’m Officer Miller. I’m sorry to disturb you so soon… but we received a call from the consulate in Mexico.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Mexico?”

“Yes, ma’am. Your husband, Mark Vance. He listed you as his emergency contact.”

I looked at the officer, then at my phone, which had finally stopped ringing. “Is he dead?”

I was shocked by how little emotion the question held.

“No, ma’am. But he is in… significant trouble.”

Part III: The Twist of Fate

Officer Miller stepped into the room. “There was an incident in Cabo San Lucas about two hours ago. A severe altercation.”

“Altercation?”

“It appears your husband was detained by Mexican authorities at the airport. He was attempting to leave the country.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because the woman he was traveling with… a Ms. Jessica Tate…” Miller paused, checking his notes. “She was arrested for attempting to transport four kilograms of cocaine in her luggage. She claimed the luggage belonged to your husband.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Cocaine? Jessica? Mark was a real estate agent. He was boring. He cheated, yes, but drugs?

“Mark is claiming he knew nothing about it,” Miller continued. “He’s claiming he was just on vacation. But Ms. Tate is cutting a deal. She told the Federales that Mark was the financier. That he used his real estate accounts to launder money for a cartel.”

My mouth fell open.

“They have frozen his assets, Mrs. Vance,” Miller said gently. “Including your joint accounts. We are here to confiscate his electronics at your home. But right now… he is using his one phone call to try and reach you.”

My phone started ringing again.

Hubby.

I looked at the screen. The vibration rattled against the plastic tray table.

He wasn’t calling to ask about the baby. He wasn’t calling to apologize.

He was calling because I was his alibi. He was calling because he needed money for a lawyer. He was calling because he was trapped in a Mexican jail cell, and his mistress had just thrown him to the wolves.

I looked at Officer Miller. “Officer, am I a suspect?”

“No,” Miller shook his head. “We’ve been monitoring the accounts. The signatures are his. You’re listed as a beneficiary, not a signatory on the shell companies. You’re in the clear. In fact… you’re the victim of significant marital fraud.”

I looked down at Leo. He was sleeping soundly, his tiny hand gripping my finger.

If I answered that phone, I would be pulled back in. I would hear his lies. “Sarah, baby, it’s a mistake. Help me. Wire me money from your trust fund. Tell them I was with you.”

He would drain me dry. He would use me, just like he used Jessica, just like he used everyone.

“You can drive yourself to the hospital.”

The words echoed in my mind.

He had abandoned me when I was most vulnerable. He had left his son to be born without a father because he wanted to play gangster in paradise.

My finger hovered over the ‘Answer’ button.

Three hours ago, I would have given anything for him to care. Now?

I pressed the Volume Down button. The ringing silenced, though the call continued to flash on the screen.

Then, I pressed the Power button.

The screen went black.

“Officer Miller,” I said, looking up with dry eyes. “My husband is currently on a business trip. I have no idea who that woman is. And as for his legal troubles… I’m afraid I’m a bit occupied at the moment.”

I gestured to the baby.

Miller smiled, a genuine, respectful smile. “Understood, ma’am. We’ll let the consulate know you are… unavailable.”

Part IV: The Reconstruction

The divorce was processed while Mark was still awaiting trial in a Mexican prison. It turns out, international drug trafficking cases move slowly.

Because his assets were frozen and seized by the DEA, there was nothing to fight over. I had my own inheritance from my grandmother—money he had always tried to get me to invest in his “projects”—which remained untouched because I had never merged it with his.

I named my son Leo. Just Leo. No middle name. And certainly not “Mark Junior,” as we had planned.

Six months later, I sat in my new living room. It was smaller than the marble mausoleum I used to live in, but it was warm. It smelled of baby powder and fresh coffee.

My phone rang.

It was a number I didn’t recognize. A collect call from a correctional facility.

I knew who it was. He had been extradited back to the US last week. He was facing twenty years.

I looked at Leo, who was learning to crawl on the rug. He looked up at me and grinned, drool shining on his chin. He was happy. He was safe.

I picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Sarah?” Mark’s voice was ragged. Broken. “Sarah, please. Don’t hang up. I haven’t heard your voice in months. I… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“You told me to drive myself, Mark,” I said softly.

“I know! I was an idiot! I was drunk! Sarah, please… I’m in hell here. Jessica lied. Everyone lied. You’re the only one who knows the real me.”

“I do know the real you,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

“I have a son,” he pleaded. “Does he have a name? Sarah, tell me his name.”

I looked at Leo.

“His name is Leo,” I said.

“Leo,” Mark choked back a sob. “Leo. Tell him… tell him his daddy loves him. Tell him I’ll be home soon.”

I took a deep breath. I felt the ghost of the pain from that bathroom floor, the cold tiles, the fear. And then I felt it vanish, replaced by the steel spine of a mother who protects her own.

“No, Mark,” I said. “I won’t tell him that.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to tell him about you at all,” I said calmly. “You made a choice that day. You chose the beach. You chose her. You chose yourself.”

“Sarah, you can’t—”

“You missed the birth,” I interrupted. “And you missed the chaotic first night. You missed his first smile. You missed the fever he had last week. You missed it all.”

“I can make it up!”

“No, you can’t,” I said. “Some calls, once you miss them… you can never call back.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear. I could hear him screaming my name, a tiny, tinny sound coming from the speaker.

“Sarah! SARAH!”

I pressed the red button.

Then, I opened the settings menu. I scrolled down to the number.

Block Caller.

I put the phone down on the table.

Leo crawled over to me and pulled himself up on my knee. “Mama?”

“I’m here, baby,” I smiled, picking him up and holding him close. “Mama is right here.”

Outside, the sun was shining. The phone remained silent. And for the first time in years, the silence didn’t feel like loneliness. It felt like freedom.

Epilogue: One Year Later

It was Leo’s first birthday.

The park was alive with the colors of autumn. Gold and crimson leaves drifted down from the maples, carpeting the grass where a small group of friends had gathered.

There was Martha, the nurse who had held my hand in the operating room. We had kept in touch, and she had become the honorary grandmother Leo never had. There were my new neighbors, a lovely couple who taught me how to garden.

And there was me.

I watched Leo smash his hands into a small blue cake, frosting smearing all over his face. He shrieked with delight, a sound so pure it healed pieces of my heart I didn’t know were still broken.

“Happy birthday, little man,” I whispered, snapping a photo.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Not a call. An email notification.

I pulled it out. The subject line made my stomach tighten for a fraction of a second: Department of Corrections – Inmate Correspondence.

It was a notification that a letter had been sent. From Mark.

I looked at the screen. I thought about the man sitting in a cell, probably writing pages of apologies, or excuses, or promises that meant nothing. He was still trying to reach out, still trying to find a tether to the life he had thrown away for a weekend in Cabo.

I looked at Leo, who was now trying to feed cake to Martha.

I swiped left on the notification. Delete.

Then I went to my settings and blocked the email address.

I put the phone away. I walked over to the picnic blanket and sat down next to my son.

“Mama, cake!” Leo offered me a fistful of blue icing.

“Thank you, baby,” I laughed, letting him smear it on my nose.

The wind picked up, crisp and cool. I took a deep breath. The air didn’t smell of fear or hospital antiseptic or lonely nights. It smelled of sugar, fallen leaves, and the future.

I had driven myself to the hospital that night, terrified and alone. But I had driven myself home a mother. And today, I didn’t need to drive anywhere. I was exactly where I was meant to be.

The End